


i am living underwater

by buries



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buries/pseuds/buries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>chris is born with a gene that causes him to involuntarily time travel. this causes a series of complications for chris as he must deal with loss, love, family, friendships and regret. based on <i>the time traveler's wife</i>; au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> written for skins_bigbang 2010 at livejournal.
> 
> The fic follows Chris chronologically by his age. Hopefully the timestamps help identify what is happening in that particular scene, such as if he has time travelled or if he is being visited by a past or future self. 
> 
> I formatted the fic specifically with "*" and "-" as scene separators. "*" means that the scene following it does not follow on from the previous scene. "-" represents that the scene following on does continue from the previous scene. It is meant to imply that the next scene is continuing to deal with the idea/issue in the previous one. I did this because I needed a way to connect certain scenes together while not saying "A few months later ..." and "And then ...". I wanted to show that time had also passed.
> 
>  **disclaimer** : Some lines and/or scenes may seem familiar to either the book or movie. I didn't lift passages from the book or movie but I did borrow a few scenes and put my own little spin on them. Obviously, credit goes to Audrey Niffenegger and the creators and team behind the movie adaption.
> 
> The title is from a quote in the book:  
> " **I'm living under water**. Everything seems slow and far away. I know there's a world up there, a sunlit quick world where time runs like dry sand through an hourglass, but down here, where I am, air and sound and time and feeling are thick and dense."
> 
> last part contains even more notes. C:

**the beginning**

a journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.  
\- lao tzu

-

**zero:**

**(2007); chris is 17 and jal is 17**

They’re walking in the park one day, their hands barely brushing.

She asks him what it’s like – to disappear. She thinks it’s like a whisper; the journey of a feather in mid-air, a peaceful descent from the heavens onto the earth. 

She misses the scrunch of his face as he debates his words, for once. He weighs them in his head. She thinks, for a moment, that perhaps this isn’t her Chris. Perhaps this is future’s Chris. She wonders whether her future self still belongs with him.

“I really fuckin’ hate it, sometimes,” Chris says. His fingers brush against hers for barely a second. He pauses as he looks up at the sky, his eyes darting everywhere but her face. His cheeks are slightly pink. “I always lose my shoes.”

*

**one: 2001**

**chris is 12, chris is 23**

The house is quiet when it happens for the first time.

Chris remembers feeling this unbearable ache in the pit of his stomach. He remembers he tried to claw it out of himself, scratching his stomach with blunt fingernails to no end. His room was always too dark. The hallway outside was always too frightening with shadows crawling up the paint stained walls. If Peter was here, he thinks, the shadows would retreat into the crevices of the house, never to be seen. It’d be like the sun, peeking through the clouds on grey, murky days. 

His mother lies in bed, wrapped in darkness. She drinks more and more from bottles that used to be hidden on the top shelf of the fridge behind cartons of milk and containers of butter. Now, they sit scattered along her floor and drawers. The fridge shelves are empty.

He sits in his room with the sun scathing across his back from his window. Peter always told him this would get rid of the monsters and protect him when he’s not there to do so. A temporary fix, he used to say.

Chris remembers feeling himself, so solid and so heavy; begin to feel light, like a feather. He felt as though he was losing consciousness as his fingertips began to fade along with the rest of his body in an agonisingly slow process. As the fading swallows him whole, he feels its mouth lightly tickling his skin. He wonders, for a brief second, if this is what it was like for Peter when he disappeared.

Chris materialises somewhere in a cemetery. He recognises it, vaguely. He turns around and sees headstones with names engraved into them, a ‘Margaret Thomason, a beloved mother’ and ‘Jacob Everett’, the blades of grass covering his dedication. 

He stumbles towards a thick tree he remembers guarding Peter’s grave from the dark monsters. He stands on weak legs as he looks down at the headstone, the large rectangular hole dug into the earth, empty and waiting. It feels like a vacuum, impatiently waiting for Peter. 

“Hey,” he hears, a hand resting on his shoulder. He jumps, turning around to see a taller man behind him. He’s wearing a suit with a bright pink tie. “It’s gonna be okay.” The man kneels down on his knees to level their faces. “I’m Chris.”

Chris blinks, words cling to the tip of his tongue as he feels the light-headedness swirl through his body, his fingertips tingling as they start to fade. This monster takes hold of him despite his protests, just like Peter. “You can’t take him,” he manages as he disappears. 

He returns to his house. His feet feel the dampness of the earth cling to his skin like a distant memory. He stands stark naked in his living room.

For the next three months, he finds himself standing in the living room, waiting for Peter to follow him. Despite his calling out to him, he never does.

*

**two: 2007**

**(2007) chris is 17, jal is 17**

They walk to the party of some girl Tony’s most likely shagged. The walk is long. Michelle complains about her heels while Chris swallows his comments about walking bare feet as he does not want to endure the lecture of how bare feet on cement is not good for one’s nail polished toes. He glances at Jal, seeing the stern set of her face, and ponders, quickly, about whether he should open his mouth or not. He hasn’t seen her smile today. 

He walks behind everyone, with Jal drifting between Maxxie, who is in front of him. Chris thinks about saying a lot of things, like, ‘Jal, how about you go talk to Maxxie about his godawful haircut?’ or ‘Jal, I’m a big kid, despite my choice in pants. I don’t need a babysitter’ or ‘Jal, I know what’s buggin’ you and I’ve got it under control. You’re far too pretty to have stress lines on your face now.’ 

Jal sticks to him like the good glue he can’t afford. It reminds him, sometimes, of the days where he was smaller, and shorter, and had good sense. In class, when everything was very much black and white and technicolour didn’t exist, he liked cutting ovals from odd bits of paper and sticking them together to create a thick odd circle-like thing that was meant to create the sun. The two halves would still stick together with their partnered pieces of paper, regardless of Tony’s tiny fingers trying to rip them apart.

He thinks to tell her she can leave him alone. The only harm he can do is something he cannot control. He’s practised this conversation many times in his head, usually to his fish, early in the mornings when the sky is yawning. ‘Jal,’ he’d say, ‘sometimes Daisy likes to drive herself’ and she’d say in return, ‘Sure, Chris,’ and she’d hit him upside the head. Hard. 

He regrets watching that movie whenever he thinks of these scenarios.

-

They get there, eventually. Tony and Sid set the pace, and that’s one of a snail. The sun has lowered itself from the last time Chris checked. He looks to the pavement to see the incoming darkness stealing away his shadow.

Once inside, they scatter. The glue between Chris and Jal starts to loosen, becoming weaker and weaker with the attractive pull of the spliff for him and the outside patio for her. He tries to keep an eye out for Jal, but she’s lost in the sea of colourful plaid and disco lights.

It happens much sooner than before. He’s in the usual place, some room down the hall that has family photographs hidden away on a bookshelf with a lot of thick volumes of intelligent stuff, when he’s piling the pills in the pockets of his three-quarter pants. He keeps a few in his palm, just like the other two guys. One is blonde, with green eyes and a wonky nose, the other has brown hair and a horrific tan. Chris tries to not make eye contact.

He’s popping pills when the world begins to spin. Jal doesn’t understand what is happening but he can hear her fear and confusion and frustration when he shouts “Chris!” She’s following him as he pushes his way through all the people in this house. It’s suddenly too dark, too loud, and everyone is pressing in on him. He feels hot, feels his skin begin to sweat. He manages blindly to get to the bathroom and slams the door shut, turning on the tap and wetting his face.

But, to no avail.

His fingertips fade first, disappearing like waves retreating back into the ocean after they’ve touched the beach. He tries to tear his fingers back, urge the skin to retreat from their disappearing act. It spreads so quickly, like a disease, and he finds himself disappearing into darkness. He only catches a glimpse of it reflected back in the mirror before he’s gone.

He hears Jal, vaguely, yelling through the door.

-

Jal sits with her back against the bathroom door. She feels her spine settle uncomfortably against it, with the carpet underneath her bare legs irritating her skin. She never really understands this. 

She tries to hear through the thick door. She hears nothing except the commotion from downstairs. The music is too loud for her taste, the beer, which doesn’t taste like beer, settles too thickly in her throat whenever she drinks it, and her friends are too blind to see through the popping lights to notice that Chris is gone.

Whenever this happens, Jal guards the door to where he’s run off to. She doesn’t really know why she waits. She’s never really been good at it. Jal blames her mother for this. She remembers staying up late when she was younger, by the window of her bedroom, waiting to see her mother’s silhouette appear in the shadows in the darkest hours of the night. She’d wait until she could do it no more, with sleep pushing her eyes closed and the patience out of her. Jal has no patience for Michelle’s antics with Tony. She has no patience for Anwar’s horrible stories about the times he’s slept with some girl, which always turns out to be untrue. Yet, she has patience for this.

Kids trip over her extended legs as she tries to make her feet touch the opposite wall. Aggravation settles into its home in her muscles. Nonetheless, she relaxes against the door.

Chris never says much about it. But, she figures, she’ll wait for him for when he does need to talk.

-

He doesn’t explain it when he comes back, early the next morning. He materialises in a room and finds his way through the lifeless bodies spread out on the floor to the bathroom. He dresses, slowly, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

Chris finds the kitchen, sees Jal sitting there, a glass of water almost empty in her hands. She’s staring at nothing, holding the glass in her palms. 

He approaches her timidly, his hands in his shirt pockets. “Are you alright?” 

“I thought ...” Jal says, but stops, taking a sip from her glass. She empties it. “I thought ...” she starts again and looks at him this time. “I don’t know what I think, Chris. What the fuck?”

“I ... travelled,” he says, shrugging. She knows this.

She shakes her head. “It’s how you do it.”

“It’s not like I can fucking control it, Jal. If I could, I’d never do it.”

Jal shakes her head. “No, Chris. You can control it. You can always control it.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says, moving to the sink and grabbing a glass from the bench. He fills it to the brim and takes long gulps from it. He puts it down on the bench; half empty, and looks out the window. The sun is glaring hard against all surfaces. He breathes in and out of his nose, hearing Jal tap her fingers against the class before stopping herself. He turns, watching the back of her head. “How you going to get home?” he says, softer.

She shrugs. “Michelle’s fucking gone.” She mutters, “As always.”

“How ‘bout I walk you home, then?”

Jal turns, shifting herself as best she can on the stool. She thinks for a moment then nods. “Alright.”

He takes the glass from her and places it in the sink. “Someone else’s bloody mess to clean up,” he says as an attempt at humour. Jal’s mouth flickers up for a second. 

They walk through the throng of bodies, only recognising Anwar’s naked ass. “Trust me,” Chris says, “you don’t want that in your face.” Jal cocks her eyebrow. “What?” Chris’ shoulders raise up high dramatically. “I’m just givin’ you future advice.”

Chris stops at the doorway, peering down at the litter of shoes. “Did you bring a purse or somethin’ to keep your delicates?” he says, looking down at the bags strewn haphazardly over the shoes. “This is horrific security for valuables,” he mutters to himself.

“I keep everything in my pocket, Chris,” Jal mumbles. He stares down at the shoes, wondering where his pair are. He picks out a pair of thongs from underneath a long, leather boot and slips them on. He grimaces at the slime he feels underneath his feet. He watches Jal pull her own shoes out. They’re leopard print flats, the kind of shoes he’s never seen her wear before. They’re more Michelle’s style, if he had to pinpoint. They sit side by side, unharassed, underneath at least, what he estimates to be, two layers of shoes.

“How the fu –” he starts. Jal sighs. He stops. 

She slips them on as he moves shoes away from the door. He opens it for her. “I hope you know you’re wearing an endangered animal on your feet.”

“It’s fake, Chris,” she sighs, exasperated.

They walk down the veranda. Chris stops. “Who the fuck’s house is this?”

Chris doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going, but they eventually find their way.

-

Jal wants to talk about it. It sits heavily on her tongue for the next week and a half. They’re sitting outside on the grass, after a bullshit lesson of Psychology. The lesson: Chris made eyes at Angie, Angie cried over some P.E. teacher, and Jal learns nothing she hadn’t read in the textbook.

They sit out on the grass in their odd shaped circle. The grass itches at the palms of her hands from where she rests them, brushing the blades back and forth as she waits for something. Anwar’s digging through his bag and Maxxie’s tapping out some rhythm. “You’re awfully unopinionated,” Chris says, nudging her leg with two of his fingers. “Where’s the spitfire?”

Jal narrows her eyes when she looks at him. The uneasy smile on his face wavers, falling off so quickly to be replaced with a strained pull of the mouth. Eventually, she says, “I’m tired.” She pushes herself up off the grass, wiping the few stray blades off her backside, and grabs her bag. Placing the strap over her shoulder, she looks at him. “I’m going to go study, since no one here is talking.”

“What’s up your ass, Jal?” Anwar says, laughing. “We’re just gettin’ started. Melanie’s havin’ a party this Thursday –”

Jal walks off. It doesn’t deter Anwar, or anyone else, from talking. Though she doesn’t hear Chris’ voice in the sea.

-

Jal cools down. Eventually. 

Chris notices. A year ago it used to take her a week to calm down. She’d forgive him in her own way by agreeing to meet him early in the morning so he could walk her to college or they’d sit down outside on the grass together, her with her books and him with his spliff.

Now, they’re sitting on the grass. He’s on his stomach and she’s sitting with her legs thrown to the side. She’s picking at grass while he’s flipping through her book. He doesn’t understand why she reads so much. Jal always has textbooks or music books with her, or a tiny little novel hidden somewhere in her bag. He doesn’t understand her need to carry books around. Unless they’re there for her to hit him with.

“So, they don’t have breakfast at Tiffany’s I gather,” he says, more of a statement than a question. The impression he gives is one that he’s read this before. He’s read something on the Internet about it. Apparently it’s a movie and they smoke.

“No,” she throws a blade of grass away. “Not really.” She pauses. “I don’t think so?” her voice rises at the end. She snatches the book from him and quickly scans the pages. Chris is laughing. She laughs around forced lines. “Sod off, you bloody wanker.” She places the book beside her and continues picking at grass.

The air around them feels cooler. It has stopped picking at his skin.

*

Jal has never collected anything in her life besides her father’s posters and anger. It’s tonight that she’ll find herself collecting shoes, and she wonders, later, whether Chris ever knew about this.

They are at a party. They are always at a party, it seems. She hates the taste of the phrase in her mouth. She hates what happens at parties even more. Which is this: They go to a party. They separate. Chris does _something_. Chris disappears hurriedly to the closest bathroom or deserted room. She follows.

Jal follows Chris into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water and swallows a couple of pills. She doesn’t get a good look at them.

“Chris,” she says from her position behind him. He jumps at her voice. Water spills around them. He’s always had the habit of filling up his glass to the very top. He’s patting himself down when she says, “Do you really think you should be doing that?”

He stops, his hand pausing over his heart. “What?” he blinks. He looks at the glass in his hand, the water spilling down, passing over his thumb and fingers and dripping onto the once immaculate kitchen floor. “I’m doing the usual, Jalander,” he says, grinning.

She frowns. “Chris –”

“It’s a party,” he says, turning around and moving past her. “Have some fun.”

He disappears within five minutes. 

-

Jal realises he is gone after ten minutes. It doesn’t sit well in her stomach.

She finds Maxxie near the overbearing speakers. He’s talking to some brown-haired boy. She’s almost touching his shoulder when he looks at her, grinning. “Where’s Chris?” Jal asks.

Maxxie shrugs. “Dunno.”

Jal pushes her way through the throng until she’s in the hallway by the door. It’s a little quieter. The floor is scattered with shoes. Near the middle of the floor, very close to the door, is Chris’ bright yellow shirt and checkered pants.

She moves towards the pile and picks up his clothes, folding them and laying them along her arm. She picks up his shoes.

She slides onto the floor and waits outside the dark den.

*

Chris usually _goes_ when his mother leaves. He’s deduced it to the stress of the questions of when and if she’s coming back and why she’s left in the first place. None of them really get answered. 

So when he doesn’t go, after the usual amount of time, which is three days after her ‘goodbye’ note, he sits outside on the stoop with Jal.

“It’s good,” she says, her voice low. “It means you’re probably getting over this thing.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Somethin’ is wrong. I’ve felt it before.”

She pauses. Tentatively, she says, “With Peter?” Chris doesn’t need to respond for her to know the answer. She clears her throat, moving her feet slightly on the steps. The pressure of the weight she has been placing on her ankles disappears. “Why don’t you stay with Tony?”

Chris shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to –”

“ _Tony_ suggested it.”

“Since when do you talk to Tony?”

She sighs. “He miscalls me and talks about Sid’s _virginity_.” She rolls her eyes.

Chris laughs. “C’mon, Jal,” he says, his voice a little lighter. “Why don’t you do us all a favour and pop his cherry?”

Jal frowns, hitting his shoulder. “I’m not a hooker!” She pauses. “Besides, he likes ‘Chelle.”

Chris shakes his head. “Tosser.”

-

He stays with Tony for a week. It’s the amount of time his parents are out of town. And, as it turns out, the amount of time his mother needs.

The week is uneventful. Chris doesn’t remember it, despite the lack of spliff intake. There is college, Angie, the grass, Effy’s double life, Chris feeling more exhausted than ever because of her (he wonders, _does she ever sleep?_ ) and the fish.

After college, he goes home to feed the fish. He doesn’t tell anyone that he checks every nook and cranny of the house for his mother.

-

The most exciting moment of his week is sitting at a bus stop with Jal. They do this, sometimes. They wait at the bus stop and fool the driver into thinking that they’re going to board. They never do. Chris doesn’t have enough money for bus fare.

A bus departs as the sun bakes through the shelter’s roof. Jal swings her legs slightly, her feet planted firmly on the ground. 

He doesn’t look at her. He watches the road and houses straight on. “My mum’s back,” Chris tells her.

She nods, licking her lips. “That’s good,” she says, although she’s unsure if she believes it. He can feel it in the softness of her tone. She’s less forceful now, trying to implant her beliefs into him. She doesn’t believe his mother is something of permanence in his life. “Are you going back home?”

“Yeah,” Chris scratches the back of his neck. “I got to.”

“No one says you have to,” she says automatically. 

He shakes his head, looking at her knees. “Nah, I need to.”

“Alright,” she says. He picks at the ends of his pants. She shrugs, trying to roll the sincerity away when she says, “But you’ve got my number.”

-

Chris does call her. 

Ace and Lynton berate each other loudly. She places her hand over her ear and tries to smother them out. “Chris?” she moves out of the kitchen and walks up the stairs hurriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“How do I clean a stain on the carpet? Like, I’ve heard you can rub it into the carpet and it’s there forever and that there’s another way you can avoid that and be an efficient cleaner.”

She pauses in her ascent. “What?”

“I spilt something and I’ve got to clean it up, Jal. Keep up, will ya?”

She looks up to the ceiling, before taking slow steps up the rest of the stairs. She makes her way into her room and shuts the door. “I don’t know how to clean up ... spills. On carpets. Just ... dab it with a wet cloth?”

“See, Jal, that’s amateurish. Real cleaners have all this fancy shit that they use, you know? Like ... products.”

“Yeah?” she laughs. She sits on the edge of her bed. “You want to be a cleaner, now, Chris?”

He shrugs, she can tell. “Maybe.”

“Look, Chris,” she laughs. “I have no fucking clue on how to clean a stain on the carpet professionally. How about you call a helpline or something?”

“Yeah, sure, let me call a fucking helpline Jal. What am I supposed to say? ‘Er, hi, I need some help because if I don’t clean this stain properly I’m going to kill myself?’ Jesus Christ, talk about wasting resources. Could’ve helped poor Sid, you know, with his virginity problem during that. Time badly spent, I say.”

She frowns. “What has that got to do with anything?”

He’s silent for a moment. “Fuckin’ everythin’, yeah? Just ... Sid’s problems are my problems. We’re like ... amigos.”

“I think you need three for that.”

“Yeah, well ...” He sighs, frustrated. “How the fuck am I gonna clean this carpet? What happens if I wanted to enter it into some fucking carpet competition? Like flower competitions. I could’ve won this, you know, and there goes my whole future as a ... an efficient carpet cleaner. And it’s all your fault, so, bear that on your shoulders.”

“Dream big, Chris,” she laughs.

“Yeah, alright. See you later. ‘Night, Jalapeno.”

-

He calls again. If she’s lucky, he calls once a day. The topics range from cupboards to the most effective spider cleaner to challenging her to make her bed quicker than him. She doesn’t let herself think it more than once a day, usually within the early minutes of waking up, that she enjoys this.

Today, he calls in the morning. It’s an hour later than his usual time. Jal looks at her clock before clicking a button on her phone, connecting him to her. “Chris, what do you want this time?” she sighs into the phone. She falls back onto her bed.

“Whatcha wearin’?” he laughs.

*

The good thing is is that Chris hasn’t travelled. Every muscle and nerve in his body has relaxed. The tension has receded out of him like waves returning to the centre of the ocean, leaving the sand alone. Chris doesn’t let himself think it for too long, or more than once a day, but he wonders whether this is the end. Has he stopped travelling?

The bad thing is Jal’s current situation. He doesn’t understand why it’s necessarily ‘bad’, or why she’s fretting over it because shouldn’t she know what to do? Isn’t it written in the DNA of a girl to know what type of dress goes with what event?

He’s followed her into Michelle’s kitchen. The group is in the lounge room, watching some shitty movie Anwar hired from the DVD shop a few streets away. 

He places his hands in the pockets of his three-quarter pants. He stays by the door, watching her grab a glass from one of the higher cupboards. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. He refrains himself from making a ‘short ass’ comment. “Why so angry, Angry-Boots?” Chris says, smiling with teeth. She really hates that name.

She places the glass on the counter by the sink and turns around. She goes to the fridge and fishes out a bottle of lemonade that’s almost empty. “I have to buy a fucking dress,” Jal says, pouting almost. She fills up her glass, it reaches halfway, and places the empty bottle on the counter near a tiny bin sitting in the corner. When she turns to face him, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest with her brows drawn together.

“Well, then,” Chris says, for a lack of anything better to say. He finds himself wanting to respond to Jal more and more these days. Weird fluttery _things_ are in his stomach. Anwar’s PHD in Wikipedia has him diagnosed with a Vitamin D disorder which requires the amputation of his leg and the transplant of his kidney. All he knows is he really doesn’t like Maxxie’s diagnosis that uses some metaphor with butterflies. He dislikes the little fluttery creatures. He plasters on a big smile as he approaches her, taking a long sip of the flat lemonade from her glass. He elbows Jal in the side, perhaps a little too hard, “You better find one, eh?”

Jal glares at him. “Fuckin’ Michelle’s too busy with Tony.”

“Ah, the tongue trick,” he says before he thinks.

Jal elbows his side. It’s a lot harder than his jab, he thinks.

-

After the movie, they disperse. Tony and Michelle move upstairs as Anwar moves outside to practice his awkward break-dancing and Jal stays in the lounge room, flicking through channels. Maxxie and Chris linger in the kitchen.

Maxxie’s drinking orange juice from a glass when Chris says, “So, I’ve been havin’ these pains, yeah?” 

Maxxie has a little trouble swallowing. Chris guesses he wasn’t ready for this – whatever _this_ is. Chris has never been one to acknowledge feelings that weren’t something pertaining to spliff and the need for spliff and his love for spliff. He’d learnt an entire passage from _Romeo and Juliet_ just to simply quote to spliff. Maxxie places the glass down and coughs a little. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

“Like, fuckin’ heart palpitations or somethin’.”

Maxxie narrows his eyes. “Like your heart is jumping?”

“Yes!” Chris claps. He points at Maxxie, lowering his voice, “That’s bloody it.”

“So ... when do these, er, happen?”

Chris isn’t quick to respond. He looks away from Maxxie, feeling his face burn. 

“Oh,” says Maxxie. He’s nodding. “So it’s like that.”

Chris doesn’t know what ‘that’ is, but he does know this is the start to confiding in Maxxie. He does so three times later that day.

*

“So what time are we going to meet up, ‘Chelle?” Michelle looks at her blankly. “For shopping,” she says, annunciating the words.

“You know, Jal,” Michelle says, her eyes skittering to the side. Jal suddenly feels frustration swell in her stomach like the ocean under the hands of a manipulative storm. “I’m awfully busy with Tony this week – you know, with course work and all that – and maybe you could ask someone else?” Michelle says, her voice pitching up slightly in that obvious way of her bullshitting. She cocks her eyebrow slightly, flinching away from Jal slightly. 

“Who the fuck am I gonna ask, ‘Chelle? Anwar?” Jal doesn’t say this, but, all Anwar’s concerned about is how much a dress can expose her tits.

Michelle shrugs. “What about Maxxie?”

“Just because Maxxie’s gay doesn’t mean he’s any good at picking out clothes,” Jal says. She sighs. “You know, I was really looking forward to this, ‘Chelle.”

Michelle laughs. “Sure, Jal. You, plus me, and shopping never equals enjoyment, especially for you.”

-

Jal thumps her fist against his door. He opens, eyes shut and his hair askew. 

Jal looks at him and hesitates slightly before asking, “What are you doing tomorrow?” 

“Me?” he points to himself and looks around. There’s no one in the house. His mother has gone to work or gone down to the pub or something that she usually does. Jal hasn’t met her enough times, nor heard about her enough, to know who Mrs Miles is. “Uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “nothin’.”

“You’re taking me shopping,” she says. “I’m sick of waiting for fucking Michelle.”

“Oh, because Tony’s fu –” He yelps as she pulls him down the few steps in front of his house. “Alrighty,” he says, grinning, his voice suddenly alive and missing its sleepy slur. “I always knew you wanted me this bad –”

She slams the gate behind her. He walks into it.

-

“So,” Chris swallows. “Why do you need a dress?”

“To fucking wear, Chris.” Jal grabs his wrist and pulls him into a store. 

“Oh,” he rolls his eyes, causing Jal to scowl. He tries to pep his voice up, “Right.” 

She rolls her eyes. “It’s for Ace and Lynton’s party. They’ve finally gotten their act together and gotten some gigs at some clubs without Dad’s silver tongue.”

“Oh, really! Well, tell them I say congrats.” She rolls her eyes. She picks out a blue dress and holds it against herself. Chris’ eyebrows scrunch. “Really?”

Jal exhales. “It’s green.”

“I think you’re mistaken Jal,” he says, grabbing the dress. He looks at it more closely, as if to see whether there’s any green thread visible in it. He figures, since he’s a bloke, he’s got some sort of colour-blind disorder when it comes to dresses. “It’s blue.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You know, if you keep doin’ that, your face will be permanently stuck like that if you get caught in particularly nasty wind.”

“I don’t think it applies to my eyes, Chris.”

He pauses for a few seconds. “No,” he says, finally, his finger on his chin. “I’m pretty sure it does.”

He’s pretty sure Jal blindly tears the dresses off the rack in a fit to get away from him. He doesn’t know why she just doesn’t ask Sidney. He’s much more fitting to the type of being the escort on these little missions, in Chris’ opinion. Although, he remembers vaguely about Sid and Tony blabbering on about one of Sid’s escapades in regards to dress shopping and that just increasing the idea of Michelle perceiving him as anything but a rival for her affections. Chris is pretty sure he’s written some sort of essay on this for Psychology.

“So,” she says, turning to him, snapping him from his thoughts. “Which one do I end up wearing?” She stands there, with her hands sitting on her hips with dresses spouting out from them. She’s acting like he knows everything, which boots his confidence and fattens his head, but confuses him in the process. He hasn’t been travelling much over the past years. It only happens sporadically, like Anwar scoring a girl.

Chris blinks. “What?”

She rolls her eyes. “You travel, Chris. You travel to the future, yeah?”

“Er,” he blinks, “not too far into it. No.”

Jal shakes her head, looking at the racks. “You’re hopeless,” she mumbles.

“But,” Chris points, clicking his fingers, “what I do know is that, er, you look good in a nice colour, like ... like ...” he’s searching the racks and pulls out a black dress. “Like this.” From what he sees of it, it’s nice, with a nice, v-neck that’s more Jal’s style, and it rests at the knees, he suspects, when he holds it up to her frame. 

She swats him away, returning to the rack. He sees her eyes flickering to the dress, as if assessing it. “Black is a shade, Chris.”

“Well, isn’t that just bullying to the highest degree.” He thrusts the dress at her, watching her as she inspects it. “You know, Jal, I expected much more from you. You’re attitude is appalling.” 

She laughs. “It’s alright, Chris.”

“’Alright’? Seriously? Are you calling my dress ... finding ... private detective work ‘alright’? Jesus, remind me to never ask you for a reference on my character. You’d just say ‘Chris is alright, his arse is alright, you know, he’s just alright’.”

“Alright,” she laughs. “I get your point.”

“See, this ‘alright’ business is startin’ to catch on like the fuckin’ plague.”

*

**(1998) ; chris is 17, peter is 11**

It’s almost Christmas.

He winds up in a park, as always, whenever he visits Peter. He remembers it used to be Peter’s favourite place. Every day, after school, they’d go to the park as they waited for Mum to come back home. She’d always come home twenty minutes after they did, finding them in the park. 

He stands behind a tree, feeling his body still riding the waves of the travel. They don’t dissipate as they usually do. He knows this trip is going to be short. When he looks up into the shadows of the tree branches, he sees the old Christmas lights hanging loosely from the lower branches. The lights aren’t on yet. They’ll cease being seen shining brightly in the night as the years pass by.

He sees Peter, and himself, playing in the sandbox. Peter’s trying to build a castle while Chris keeps smashing it down with his fists. He’s laughing as Peter scowls. He sees their mother in the distance, approaching them. Her frame looks fuller, brighter, if possible, and she’s smiling, laughing as Chris claps his hands and yells out to her. 

The wind brushes his fingertips forcefully, although, when he remembers later, there was none. As his fingers fade and the rest of his limbs follow, Chris tries to remember the last time he heard his mother laugh.

When he materialises back home, he can’t remember a single time at all.

He walks to her room, passing the kitchen and the tangled Christmas lights piled up in the corner. He was going to hang them up on the house, or line the pathway to the door, later in the day. When he reaches her door, the darkness of her room envelopes him, ridding the light that owns the hallway; he doesn’t need a light to know his mother is in bed. 

“Where’d you go?” she slurs with sleep.

“I saw him,” he says quietly. He tries to spot her in the darkness. “I saw Peter. He’s happy.”

“He’s gone,” she moans over and over to herself, her words like blades cutting across his skin. Chris stares at the spot where he hears her voice fading, frowning as the darkness of the room drowns out her words.

He walks out the door and makes his way to the park.

*

**three: 2008**

“Mum’s gone,” Chris says. In his hand is an envelope. It’s a little thicker than the other ones. It feels heavier in his hand, like it’s made from lead. He places it down onto the table.

“She’s coming back, right?” Maxxie folds the tablecloth. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “she always comes back after a few days. Yeah?”

Chris shrugs. “Dunno, man,” he closes the envelope and places it on the table, pressing his palm heavily against it. “Maybe not this time.”

-

She doesn’t come back after her usual two week escape.

Maxxie follows him as he walks into the living room. Chris closes a window, listening for the thump sound to tell him that it is locked. He’s developed a habit of locking all the doors and windows when he leaves and when he’s at home. The only time he opens the window is if he’s in the room. 

Maxxie sits down on the lounge. “So, where are you staying?”

Chris shrugs, double checking the window is securely locked. He doesn’t face Maxxie when he says, “Dunno, man.”

He sits down on the couch, near the end. They end up watching cartoons for the rest of the day.

\- 

Jal offers him a place to stay. He doesn’t think to take her up on it. Her father resembles an axe murderer from one of the late movies that air on the television in the early hours of the morning. Chris doesn’t need to take Psychology to know Mr Fazer doesn’t like him at all.

He ends up at Angie’s, somehow. She’s the ‘x’ marked on the pirate map. The blur of their tentative relationship sends Chris swirling with dizziness; he can’t remember how he got from Point A to Point B to the ‘x’. He isn’t able to recall how they end up where they are, but he isn’t shy when he says he likes it.

He stays with her for a month before he finds the hidden treasure.

*

Chris likes the guy-walks-into-the-bar jokes. 

A horse walked into a bar, and the bartender said, "How come the long face?

A pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel hanging from his belt. The bartender asks, “What’s that for?” The pirate responds, “Aarr, it’s driving me nuts.”

Two guys walks into a bar, the third one ducks.

A guy walks into a bus –

-

Chris sits by Jal in the hospital. “You know how people ask ‘Where were you when Diana died?’?”

Jal hums, keeping her eyes to the floor. Her shoes are dirty. 

“Well, I never know. When someone asks me ‘Where were you when Tony –’”

“Chris,” Jal says, touching his wrist. “Tony isn’t going to –”

“Oh no,” Chris says, shaking his head. He tries to release his wrist from her light grasp but she tightens her hold. “Everyone who comes here ends up dead, sooner or later.”

“Chris –”

He shoots up, their hands disconnecting. “I’m gonna go get a bag of chips. You want some?”

Jal shakes her head. Chris disappears down the hall.

*

**(2008); chris is 25, tony is 18**

Chris materialises in the changing rooms of the public pool. He remembers it vaguely, having learnt how to do the basic strokes of dog paddle when he was a kid.

He searches through all the bags and open lockers in hopes of clothes. All he finds are small children’s clothes. Eventually, in what he thinks is some office, he finds some gear the staff wear. It’s a horrid bright yellow, brighter than any shade he’s ever owned, and some board shorts that make him feel more exposed than the time he wore a dress without any underwear on.

He walks out, although timidly. He’s never dressed up this horrendously before on one of his travels. He can hear a lesson being taught with kids screaming in hysterics and in laughter, clashing together so hideously like cats screeching in the rain. Instantly, he spots Tony. He’s struggling, sort of. It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before. He seems more confident in the movement of his arms and the kick of his legs. Mr Stonem looks happier, prouder of Tony’s progress. 

He tries to place this moment in time but comes up blank. 

He makes his way out of the pool area, hopefully unseen by the Stonems. Near the food, he finds the table he once sat at with Tony. He sits at one in the corner. The one thing he’s learnt, so far, is to stay out of sight. It’s like one of those Marty McFly things, where you shouldn’t be in the same room as your past or future self because, lets be frank, you’ll fuck something up. And if Chris’ only purpose in life is one thing, it’s to do just that – not purposefully, though. 

He tries to listen for some inkling of what time he’s in, what place. He’s unsure if Tony’s the Tony he thinks he’s come to. He can still hear the screams of the kids from here, overcrowding his thoughts. He’s got a nervewracking headache.

Eventually, the lesson ends. Tony’s near him within ten minutes after the screams end. He’s at the counter, buying a tuna sandwich. Chris tries not to stare at Tony as he tries to place him. He watches him thank the lady behind the counter, offer her a friendly smile, and sit down at the table he once sat across from him.

He gives it one second of a thought before he moves and sits across from Tony.

Tony looks startled. 

“Hi, Tony,” Chris says, albeit a little hesitantly. He’s never encountered a Tony where he wasn’t aware of his comings and goings. It’s always been other people he seems to gravitate towards in his journeys. He’s unsure if this will be his first.

“You’re exceptionally older,” Tony says, instantly ridding Chris of his thoughts. He wonders if Tony ever not knows about this. “Travelling doesn’t seem to be doing you any good ... facially.”

“Well, they haven’t invented travelling anti-wrinkle cream yet, Tone.”

Tony smiles, taking a bite of his sandwich. Chris ignores the rumble of his stomach, placing his hands on the arm rests of the silver seat. His burning palms sting against the chilled metal. “So,” Tony sits up straighter. “Why are you here?”

“Have no clue,” Chris shrugs. “Just ... come here.”

Tony nods. “I know I’m irresistible.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate.” 

“Tuna sandwich?” Tony thrusts the sandwich container at him. He shakes his head. Tony shrugs, “Your loss.”

Chris blinks.

“You alright, Chris?”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, struggling to swallow. “I’m just ... going.” 

He disappears.

*

**(2008) chris is 25, tony is 18**

He goes to the swimming pool.

“Chris,” Tony gestures to the empty seat across from him. He’s eating another tuna sandwich. “You’re old.”

“You keep telling me, mate,” Chris says, sitting.

“Sandwich?” Tony asks, pushing the container close to Chris.

“Nah thanks. Can’t travel on a full stomach.”

“Does it get better?”

“What does?”

Tony shrugs, looking down at himself.

Chris slaps his shoulder. “All in due time, mate.”

Tony smiles. “When are you leaving?”

Chris shrugs. “Probably not for a while.”

Tony nods. “Well, mate, you got any cards? I’m going to slay you in some poker.”

*

“Where do you go, man?” Anwar says. “I’d go to Las Vegas. Smack in the middle of a strip club, yeah?”

Chris shrugs. “Never been out of the fucking country, man.” “One time I got excited that I was in Australia but I woke up in the bloody zoo.”

Chris points his cigarette at Maxxie. “Now, listen here, you lot.” “Never trust a fuckin’ kangaroo.” He puts the cigarette in his mouth. “They’re like women.” Jal’s brow immediately scrunches, though she’s laughing.

*

**(2008) chris is 18, tony is 18**

It’s the day of the bus crash.

Chris is too late. 

*

**four: 2009**

**(2009) chris is 19, tony is 19**

“Why do you keep travelling?” Tony asks as he eats a tuna sandwich. He pushes the sandwich container closer to him, hinting he should take the other piece. Chris doesn’t, despite the slight rumble of his stomach. He’s tired of taking things from his friends. Tony looks up at him from his sandwich. “Do you know?”

Chris shrugs. “Dunno, man. Jus’ happens.”

“Really,” he states. “You have no clue how it happens?” 

Chris shakes his head. “Not a clue.”

Tony shrugs. “Maybe you do something. Maybe it’s like ... vertigo. You go near flashing lights and something in you snaps and you travel.”

Chris shrugs. “Maybe there is no reason.”

*

**five: 2010**

**chris is 20, jal is 20**

There are five moments Chris remembers distinctly in 2010:

**Un:** He learnt French.

**Deux:** He learnt that if you cannot find a turban to hide drugs in, Sid’s ass should never be a back-up option.

**Trois:** He learnt that he really likes seeing Angie naked.

**Quatre:** He learnt that Jal looks good in her ‘green’ dress.

**Cinq:** He learnt that Jal was his beginning.

Not specifically in that order.

*

**Un: (2010) chris is 20, jal is 20**

“What would be one thing you’d change about yourself?” Michelle says, lying flat on her stomach. Jal picks at the grass as Chris taps his chin with his finger. 

“I’d smoke cigars,” he says.

Michelle laughs. “That’s not an answer.”

“You asked what I wanted. I want a cigar.”

“What about you, Jal?”

She shrugs. “I want to be a musician.”

Chris rips some blades and throws them at her. “That’s nothin’ new.”

Jal shrugs. “Well, I dunno. I’d pick better friends,” she laughs as Chris throws more grass her way. Dirt, from some of the roots, clings to her clothes. She brushes it off.

“Well, I change my answer,” Chris says, sitting up straighter. “I’d learn French. It reels in the ladies.”

Anwar laughs. “I wouldn’t change anythin’. Just give myself more girls.”

Jal narrows her eyes. “You’d have to have girls to begin with.”

Chris throws more grass at her. “Be nice,” he says, laughing. “Anwar has many girls. In his dreams.” 

Michelle clears her throat, brushing some of the loose grass blades Chris has placed on her legs off her pants. “What about you, Max?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. I’d probably own a motorbike. Y’know, so one of us would have a method of transportation. My legs ache from all the walkin’.”

“You do need it, though,” Chris laughs.

“I dunno what I’d want,” says Sid. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Probably get rid of these glasses. Have, like, night vision. Be some sort of superhero.”

Chris pulls at the lapels of his jacket, his fingers itching for the grass. He says, “Don’t go near any spiders, yeah, Sid? You’ll die. Not grow powers.” Sid rolls his eyes.

“What about you, ‘Chelle?” Jal says.

She shrugs. “Tony,” she says quietly. She glances to a space in their little circle. “I’d have him be with me that night.”

Chris looks down. Jal reaches out and slides her arm along Michelle’s shoulders. 

“You’re so selfless,” Anwar says, “you’d make a hot superhero.”

Jal narrows her eyes and shakes her head. Chris yanks out some grass, pegging it at Anwar’s face.

-

“Mademoiselle,” Chris gives her a packet of chips. “Je suis, chips.”

Jal takes the packet from him. She opens it, offering him the chips inside. He fishes a few out of the packet, popping them noisily into his mouth. “You know you just said your name is chips?”

“Puck,” he says. 

“Why are you learning French, anyway?” Jal scrunches up the packet, opening it again to see the large chips in crumbles.

Chris shrugs. “To woo the ladies. There’s fierce competition out there.”

Jal laughs. “Like who?”

“The Shakespeare nerds. I hear girls eat that shit up. The only way to beat them is to French ‘em.”

“Chris.”

He fishes for more chips in the packet. “Why do you turn them into crumbs? You do know there’s more air in the packet than chips, yeah?”

Jal rolls her eyes. “I like turning them into crumbs,” she says, shrugging. “It’s something to do.”

“Something to do,” Chris mutters. “You know, instead of turning perfectly fine chips into dust, you could be helping me learn French. You know Jal,” he says, fishing for more chips. He piles them in his palm and picks up a few at a time. “You wouldn’t make a good superhero. You’d make an excellent villain. Like Catwoman.”

“Catwoman –”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving his hands. Some of the chips fall to the floor. “But you’d look good in latex, is all I’m saying.”

Jal throws the packet of chips at him, laughing.

*

**Trois: (2010) chris is 20**

What he learns quickly with Angie is that she takes incredibly long showers. He doesn’t have the patience to wait for her to get out. He’s got college and bus stop meetings and walking to do during his day, when he’s not with her. His time with her has been growing drastically. His time without her diminishing.

So he slides out of the bed, leaving the sheets a mess. He walks into her bathroom; slides open the shower door, and steps in. He remembers the first time he did this, Angie shrieked, telling him she was _naked_ and made it out to be the biggest deal in the world. In response, he had laughed, saying, “I’ve already seen the goods”, accompanied it with a shrug, and ever since then, things have moved on from there.

Chris never knew he would be capable of learning a lesson within a lesson. But what he also learns, and later forgets, is that living with Angie is “fuckin’ ace”.

*

**Quatre: (2010) chris is 20, jal is 20**

Ace and Lynton’s gig isn’t all that bad. The club is nice. The drinks are even better. But he doesn’t understand why, of all things, they’re sitting down in the furthest corner, trying to talk over the music. Chris’ legs want him to get up and jump. Jal’s missing from their group. Michelle suggests they sit and wait for her. “After all,” she says, “we are _her_ guests.” She looks pointedly at Tony, who is currently suffering from Wandering Eye Syndrome.

Jal slides onto the booth next to Maxxie. The dress is a strapless red dress that ends at her knees. It doesn’t expose nor cover too much. Chris had been adamant that she buy a blue dress that had a v-neck that dipped dangerously low. 

“Nice dress,” Anwar says, staring straight at her chest. 

Jal rolls her eyes and slaps him upside the head. “Thanks, Muslim Boy.” 

Chris nods his head to the beat. “Nice party.”

Jal cocks her eyebrow. “I’ll tell Ace and Lynton you said that, yeah?” She doesn’t sound impressed.

Michelle looks at her. She tries to keep Tony in her grasp but he manages to slip away. So does Anwar and Maxxie. “I thought you were getting a _green_ dress.”

“I told her,” Chris says, “to fuck the environment.”

Jal frowns. “Are you drunk?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, just drunk on anti-environmentalism.” He looks at Michelle. “Where’s your arm piece?”

Michelle narrows her eyes at him and slides out of the booth. She goes in search of Tony.

“That wasn’t nice.”

Chris shrugs. “Fuck it. I’m a bitch. What are you gonna do?”

Jal rolls her eyes. “You better fuckin’ dance with me. And not ditch me. I hate Lynton’s friends.” She says, sliding out of the booth and starts walking to where Ace and Lynton are holding a small concert. Chris slides out ungracefully, following her.

*

**Cinq: (2018) chris is 20, jal is 28**

He ends up outside a small house. It is homey, with two steps leading up to a veranda bordered by a ledge. The lawn is green and the grass blades are short and evenly cut. 

When he walks up to the front, there are clothes sitting on a swinging chair. A piece of paper lays on the neat pile. _Chris_ , it says in familiar writing. He quickly dresses in the slacks and business shirt. As he’s doing up the buttons of the shirt, he sees movement from the corner of his eye. He turns and sees Jal with paper bags in her hands. Chris has never seen her look so stunned before.

She walks up to him, slowly at first, and places the bags on the ledge. She envelopes him in a hug and he buries his face, hopefully inconspicuously, into her neck. Her hands snake up his neck, leaving a light ticklish path beneath her fingers, until she reaches his cheeks and settles her palms against them like the sun on his face. She pulls away and she pulls his face to hers, mouth to mouth like two palms when they press to pray. “I’ve missed you,” he hears murmured against his mouth, imprinted within the lines of his lips for what he thinks is forever.

Within moments, when there’s a breath between their mouths, he disappears.


	2. part two

**the middle**

Beginnings are usually scary and endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts. You have to remember this when you find yourself at the beginning.  
\- Sandra Bullock

*

**six: 2011**

**chris is 21**

‘Shit’ with Angie starts to sour. Chris counts the ways on his fingers:

 **one:** She has really short showers.

 **two:** They spend less time in bed and more time with their clothes _on_.

 **three:** Apparently her job is ‘very important’ to her, as according to Angie.

 **four:** They fight like a married couple.

 **five:** Sometimes, he has to sleep on the lounge. Angie’s lounge is as hard as a rock. 

**six:** Chris gets a job. He has more fun at the job, flirting with this tall, leggy redhead named Charlotte.

 **seven:** Chris saves the money he’s earned from his job. He doesn’t spend them on flowers or chocolates or DVDs that are on the list, pinned to her fridge.

 **eight:** When he wakes up in the morning, he makes his side of the bed. 

**nine:** There are no more tumbles in the sheets.

 **ten:** Jal was right. Getting into a relationship with Angie would end with him in a pile of shit.

-

The pile of shit, so to speak, doesn’t blow up until _after_ he’s shown Angie his new flat. And they’ve christened it at least twice. The third time they christen it is with their arguing ... and their impending break-up.

She sort of ends it. But she ends it in a ‘we’re going on hiatus, let me go fuck someone else for a while’ sort of way which leaves Chris’ skin crawling. Chris doesn’t really understand where it comes from at first. But it’s Merve. It has Merve written all over it.

“You know he’s a bit ... funny, right?”

“Chris!” Angie says, her eyes wide. It’s like he’s telling her Santa isn’t necessarily real. He feels like he’s breaking a kid’s spirit. “I _told_ you –”

“Yeah, I _know_ what you told me. And you told me a lot of things. Like how you loved me –”

“ _Merve_ came first, Chris. He asked me to marry him.”

“Ages ago.”

She looks like she’s going to smack her foot on the ground. She’s looking at his floor, seeming to retreat into herself. “ _Still_. “

Chris nods, more to himself than to her. “I see,” he says, quietly. “Well, I guess I just mean nothin’, yeah? Jus’ somethin’ to play with while you wait for your little funny guy.”

“Chris,” she draws out his name. She looks at him. He looks away. “It isn’t like that.”

He nods, humming. “Yeah, but it _is_ like that. Isn’t it?”

Angie doesn’t pick up what little she’s left in his apartment.

-

They’re at the bus stop. He’s smoking; Jal gives him her shoulder to cry on, if he needs it.

“You know, I can’t fuckin’ believe her,” he says, exhaling the smoke. “She loves me, yeah, and then, all of a sudden, this funny little thing walks along and she doesn’t anymore.” 

“She’s a bitch,” Jal says, swinging her legs slightly. She’s sitting further up the bench chair, curling her legs around it as she waits this out. “You shouldn’t worry about it, Chris.”

“But I love her,” he says.

She pats him on the shoulder. “Dry your eyes princess,” she says. “If you want, we can board a bus today.”

“Really?”

She nods. “It’s on me.”

-

They meet at the bus stop every day. He brings her an umbrella when it rains.

-

It’s his idea to meet up in the early hours of the morning.

Chris is there before her. He’s sitting at the bus stop, watching as a few cars drive by.

She sits beside him. “It’s fuckin’ early,” she says, rubbing her eyes. She tries to stifle a yawn.

Chris nods. “I know,” he says, glancing at her. “Have a nice beauty sleep?”

“Fuck off,” she mumbles, yawning.

“I stand corrected. Did you have a nice _nice_ sleep?”

Jal curls her hand into a fist and punches him in the shoulder. She looks out at the street, mumbling, “Fuck off.”

“You’re awfully weak in the mornings,” Chris says, flicking her ear. “Weak in patience, I mean.” He laughs.

She glares at him. “If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’m going home and sleeping.” Jal makes a move to get off the seat, but Chris catches her wrist, pulling her down.

“I wanted you to sit out here with me. While it’s still quiet.”

He doesn’t let go of her hand.

-

“Y’know, Jal,” he says, approaching her at the bus stop. “We _must_ stop meeting like this.” Chris sits.

Jal rolls her eyes. “You need to watch new movies,” she mumbles.

Chris sighs, feeling the sun start to cook his back. “I’m so glad I wore red today.”

She turns to look at him. “Why?”

“It’s not black. Black absorbs heat, Jal.” He looks at her shirt. It’s an old shirt she bought a few years ago at some concert he can’t remember. The image is fading, having been washed one too many times.

“Sorry, Mr Genius. I left my pure white dress at home.”

Chris shakes his head. He mutters, “Angry-Boots.”

She punches him in the shoulder. He can officially conclude that she is much stronger when she’s more awake.

-

He doesn’t really know how it happens, but he kisses her at the bus stop, early in the morning.

He leans over; she turns, probably having seen him advancing in her peripheral, and gives her a quick peck. When he pulls away, Jal is frowning.

He’s about to say something when she rolls her eyes. “You’re paying for the bus fare.”

“If I had known that was all it took –”

She places her hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Chris. Don’t ruin it.”

*

“Your idea of a date is the bus stop?”

Chris shrugs, pulling out his shirt from his pants. He’s wearing a light blue business shirt with a pale criss-crossed pattern with a pair of his cleanest three-quarter pants. Angie had advised him to buy a couple of shirts for his gig at the real estate to appear more ‘professional’ and ‘in their league’. Chris did so because he liked the cuffs and the sleeves. She hated the colour and the print, but he liked it. “Fuck it. I’m –”

“ _I’ve_ heard this one before,” she says, laughing. Chris smiles, happy to see the frown slide off her face. She’s wearing the dress they bought years ago. The v-neck doesn’t dip as low as Michelle would’ve liked, but it ends above the knee, which everyone, including Maxxie, was once appreciative of. Jal likes nice legs when she lets them out of their cage. She likes to pretend the dress is green while he likes to appreciate how the black compliments Jal’s dark hair and draws his eyes to her nice legs. His gaze lingers there for a moment. He thinks he’d like her in any colour, really, but he doesn’t tell her so. Her head is big enough already.

“You look nice,” he says, sitting next to her. He makes sure that his leg is brushing against hers and that the space between them is minimal. 

Jal grins. “Well, I had some help pickin’ out this thing.”

He grins. “I always told you black was a nice colour.”

“It’s a shade.” 

Chris leans down and picks up the paper bag he’s stashed underneath his legs. He places it on his lap and pulls out a burger. “Thought you’d like some McDonalds,” he says, passing her the burger. “Got you a Big Mac.” He pulls out a cardboard box from the bag.

Jal starts laughing. “A Happy Meal?”

“Well, yeah. I’m hungry and I’m happy.”

Jal smiles. “You’re happy?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying not to smile. “Though, I’d be happier if you bought me a falafel.”

She hits his shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.” Chris grins, opening his mouth to speak. She rolls her eyes. “Shut it.”

He opens the box and pulls out his own burger. He takes a bite, saying with his mouth full, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They eat in silence, watching the cars go by. She steals a few of his chips until he gives her the packet, taking a handful out and placing them on his lap. He picks one at a time to eat. 

He asks one more time for a falafel. She declines.

They end up back at his apartment. He opens the door for her, bowing and gesturing wildly for her to enter. It’s clean; last time she was here, the clothes were strewn over the lounge and the floor, his bed was unmade and the kitchen had dishes drying in the rack. This evening sees none of this, except for a few garments shoved underneath a pillow on the lounge.

He shuts the door, kicking off his sneakers, and stands beside her. He runs his hand over the back of his neck. “You still owe me a falafel.”

She rolls her eyes and snakes her arms around his neck. He murmurs, “I like your dress.”

“It’s _green_.”

“Well, then,” he says, wrapping his own arms around her waist. “You still owe me a falafel then.”

“Since when?”

“Since ... you broke the agreement.” Before she can ask ‘what agreement?’, he pulls her a little closer and starts to sway. “You said you wouldn’t say ‘no’. Well, you’re sayin’ ‘no’ right now when I tell you that your _black_ dress is nice.”

Jal rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll get you a falafel if you shut up.”

Chris smiles. “I think I can do one better.” Then, he kisses her. He gives her mouth a few playful pecks before she catches him in an open-mouthed kiss. 

Chris starts to lead them towards his bedroom, turning them so he’s backing her into the room. She tugs at his tie, pulling it apart and drops it to the floor. She kicks off her leopard print flats and he stumbles over them, smiling into her mouth. 

His hands go up into her hair, running through it and tugging it at the same time. Jal likes the sensation, running her own hands through his short hair, gripping it when he moves his mouth to her neck. 

The back of her legs hit the end of the bed. Chris stops moving, his legs standing still as he continues to kiss her neck. Jal’s fingers undo the buttons holding his business shirt together, trying hurriedly to get it off. Chris is too busy moving from her neck to her shoulder. She tries not to get distracted with his hands pressing firmly into her back, gripping the dress at random intervals.

Somehow, Jal finds herself leaning back, with Chris pressing into her front. Jal breaks away from him, moving to kneel on the middle of the bed. Chris follows her, grinning like he’s a cat that’s caught the mouse. When he’s in front of her, he’s kissing the corner of her mouth before running his lips over the skin of her neck. Jal palms his shoulders, her hands sliding down his back and coming back up along the trail of his spine. 

Chris’ fingers flutter across the skin of her back to her shoulders where he plays with the strap of her black dress. She pulls his face to hers and opens her mouth under his. He pulls the strap down only to pull it back up again. He finds the side zipper of the dress and pulls it down, his palm then travels back up the exposed skin to move back down again. Jal squirms a little, smiling into his mouth. She feels Chris’ move to form a grin. He murmurs against her mouth, “I forgot you were ticklish.”

Jal frowns, though he comes to press his lips against her forehead. She thinks about saying something before he presses his mouth to hers, his hands pulling down the straps of her dress. His fingers skim over the skin of her arms. He intertwines the fingers of his right hand with hers for a few seconds before pulling away with the strap of her dress. Her dress sits at her waist with his hands bunched in it, trying to somehow get it over her bent legs. She smiles.

His fingers glide over her back, skimming over her strapless black bra. Jal’s fingers hook around the waistband of Chris’ pants, pulling them down to the bend of his knees. Chris pushes her backwards until she’s lying flat on the bed, her head barely reaching the pillows. Chris grins, pulling his pants off and kicking them off the bed. His fingers grip the soft fabric of her dress and she lifts her hips so he can pull it off her body. 

Chris kisses her stomach, smiling against her skin. He mumbles, “Y’know, wearin’ black means you were expecting somethin’.” He looks up at her, his hair mussed and pointing in all directions, “I don’t like the insinuation that I’m easy.”

Jal cocks her eyebrow, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s _green_.”

Chris grins, moving so his mouth is hovering above hers. “Even better,” he says, before pressing his mouth to hers. She feels his hand on her breast, following the feel of her strapless bra until his hands are trapped behind her back. She lifts herself up, pressing her front against his, and he undoes the clasp of her bra. He tosses it to the side, a comment of being a gentleman crosses her mind but Chris attacks her mouth, his hands gliding across every plane of her body. He finds the ticklish spots of her sides and skims his fingers over them lightly.

She feels him hard against her leg through his _Tom & Jerry_ boxers. Jal’s laughter is muffled by his mouth pressing hard against hers. She feels his smile as he kisses his way across her cheek towards the corner of her eye. He’s leaning across her, trying to not move his body at all if he can help it, to reach inside the drawer beside the bed. His stomach hovers near her as he reaches in to grab one of the many condoms she knows he keeps in there and she presses kisses along his hot skin before he places his face at the crook of her neck.

She thinks she must have said something, or made some sort of noise, because she can feel Chris grinning against her neck and he’s pulling away, taking his warmth with him as he shimmies out of his boxers. He rips the packet in his hands open and slips the condom on. Pressing his lips to her ankle, he travels up her legs, leaving patches of kisses in his wake, until he meets her inner thigh. He lingers there. She can feel a tiny grin on his face.

She nudges him somewhere near his shoulder with her foot. He takes the hint, she thinks, because he’s got his fingers hooked in the waistband of her underwear and is pulling them down. He manages to slip them off her feet and makes his way back up to her mouth, leaving kisses along her skin. 

He presses his lips hard against her own, opening underneath her as he takes her leg, where it bends at the knee, in his hand and pulls it up. He’s hard against her thigh. Jal wraps her legs tightly around his waist, feeling his mouth pressing hard against hers. Her hands run through his hair, gripping at it, and she pulls him harder, if possible, against her mouth. 

When he enters her, he moves slowly, so frustratingly slow, and she runs her hands through his hair before gripping it. She gives it a little tug before her hands escape to the planes of his back, her blunt nails leaving little red lines across it. He picks up the rhythm, thrusting harder and faster, and she meets him, pushing her hips into his. 

She comes before him, wrapping her legs tight around his waist. He murmurs a breathy “Fuck” against her mouth and breaks away, moving his mouth to her neck as he moves inside her. He soon follows, merging “Fuck” and “Jal” with a groan. 

Jal loosens her hold on him, feeling him slacken against her slightly. He moves his mouth to her shoulder where it lingers hot and wet over the skin.

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Eventually, he moves, coming to lie beside her. She turns onto her side and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. He kisses the back of her neck. She never really imagined him to be a cuddler.

.

Jal wakes up two times in the night. The first, she finds a thin sheet wrapped around her and odd coolness at her back. She can see another light in the apartment on, barely touching the walls of his room. It’s the kitchen.

The second time, she can hear his voice murmuring from somewhere in the apartment. It is dark. “Look, just come home,” he says, and for a moment, her heart lurches, thinking of his mother. She sits up in bed, feeling her body start to slowly wake up. “C’mon,” he says, his voice raising as he continues with, “you’re bein’ unreasonable.” She can hear him pacing on the wooden floor. It’s a few minutes before he says “Cass –” and then the click of the phone.

.

Jal disentangles herself from the twisted sheets and Chris’ limbs. She sits on the bed, fiddling with his discarded shirt before slipping it on. She pulls at the end of it, tugging it down as far as it will go, which isn’t far at all. Standing up, she moves around the apartment, feeling the end of the shirt brush against her thighs. His kitchen is clean, minus a bit of spliff on the counter by the sink, as is his lounge-room. It’s so unlike Chris she takes a moment to soak it all in.

She finds the bathroom, opening the door to find another one that connects his room. She refrains from slapping herself on the forehead.

“She’s not here ... anymore,” he says from the doorway. He leans against it awkwardly, as if he doesn’t know where he should be. Jal knows immediately who he’s talking about. Everyone knows about Chris and Angie. What they don’t know is how it all came to a grinding halt.

Jal settles her gaze back onto the shelves inside the mirror. “Fancy bathroom you have here,” she murmurs, closing the little door of the secret mirror shelves. She looks at herself in the little mirror.

Chris sneaks up behind her, snaking his warm arms around her waist. He settles his chin on her shoulder. “You’re cold,” he says, his fingers lightly drawing circles on her stomach.

“Mm,” she hums. “I’m warm-hearted.”

“What are you tryin’ to say, hm?” he says into the skin of her neck. “I’m cold-hearted ‘cause I’m warm?”

She smiles. “If the shoe fits,” she places her hands over his.

“Well, then,” Chris says, moving his hands quickly. He gathers her up, carrying her in the bridal style, back to his room. “We should investigate that.”

He drops her onto the bed, both of them laughing.

*

Chris untangles himself from the sheets and slides into his shorts. 

He looks inside the wardrobe. On the bottom floor, beneath fallen jackets and discarded clothes, he finds a line of men’s shoes. Some of the soles are torn to shreds, some are falling apart from the front, sides or back, and some are crisp, like a new book without the indent of bent pages, all new and shiny. 

There is movement behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees Jal, in one of his shirts, standing behind him. “What’s this? Got some bloke on the side?” he says, trying to laugh.

Jal almost rolls her eyes. “No,” she says, although her tone doesn’t suggest the answer is a definite end of the discussion. She shrugs, looking over to the window as she mumbles, “Your shoes are the only part of you that stands still.”

Chris looks down at them. He feels Jal’s gaze heating the length of his back. He doesn’t ask about his clothes. Every item of clothing is feminine in the wardrobe. He looks back at her, in one of his business shirts, and sees the inconsistency there. Years ago he’d be wearing t-shirts of rock bands and random sayings he liked the humour of, and now, as Angie once said, he’s grown up.

*

**seven: 2012**

**(2012) chris is 22, jal is 22**

Jal barely forms a fist to knock against his apartment door when Chris opens it wide. He’s smiling like he’s the cat that’s caught the mouse. 

“Look,” he says, holding a ticket. Jal tries to read the printed words but he’s moving it too quickly out of her sight. He grabs her hand and tugs her inside his apartment. She takes off her jacket as Chris skips to the television. He turns the volume up. 

“What are you doing, Chris?” Jal says, frowning. She approaches him slowly, making her way to sit down on the lounge. Her feet ache from her day of walking.

“Giving us a life.”

“By watching television?” she says, looking at him over her shoulder.

Chris frowns. “No,” he holds the ticket in her face again. “I’m makin’ us some money, babe.”

She rolls her eyes. “No one we know ever wins these things,” she mutters. 

The lotto draw beings. Chris murmurs, “Thank you, Jodie. Ever so lovely seeing you again,” and grins at the television. Jal refrains from laughing. “Thirty-three,” Chris says, bouncing on his heels. The woman hosting the show, she’s guessing her name is Jodie, looks at the ball and repeats, “Thirty-three.”

“Twenty-seven,” Chris winks at her, still bouncing on his heels. 

Jal turns her attention to the television. Jodie grins widely, repeating Chris, “Twenty-seven.”

Jal looks at Chris. “Chris –”

“Shh,” he says, “forty-eight is coming up.”

“Forty-eight,” Jodie murmurs in the background.

Jal looks down at the ticket, hearing Chris murmur the numbers “Thirty-two”, “seventeen” and “twelve” just before Jodie announces them in her dull voice. “No,” she says, her eyes wide. “No, Chris. _No._ ” She pushes the ticket back at him, trying to press it firmly into his hands, but he’s having none of it. He laughs, moving away from her attempts. “ _Chris_ \--”

“Jal,” he says through his laughter. “Let me spoil you for once, yeah?”

She whispers it, as though his neighbours can hear them. “This is _cheating_ , Chris.”

He shrugs. “What’s the sodding point in havin’ this genetic thing if I can’t _use_ it.”

“I – _I don’t know_. Why – why can’t you use it for ... for good?”

Chris laughs. “Yeah, I’m like the motherpuckin’ Spiderman.” He sits down next to her, invading her space. He presses his legs against hers, taking her hands in his. “Jal,” he says. “Nobody knows. Nobody needs to know. All we have to say is we had good luck.”

“Chris ...”

“Let me do this for you,” he says, placing the ticket in her hands. He curls her fingers around it. “This is your good luck.” 

Jal looks down at their joined hands, the ticket scrunching at the corners from the sheer force of his grip.

She acknowledges it three days later, identifying herself at the newsagency.

-

On the first day, God created a small one-storey house. Inside, it had nice wooden floors, a large kitchen, and a big chimney. Chris found the garage distasteful.

On the second day, God created a nice brick house, situated on a large block of land. It was camouflaged by thick oak trees; a small, brick letterbox signalled a house was hidden somewhere between the leaves. The ceilings were high, the closets large, and a large tub with jets situated in a pure white tiled bathroom. Chris found the lack of an island in the kitchen to be distasteful.

On the third day, God created a two-story house, located on a main road, outlined with a delicate, picket white fence. They didn’t manage to pass the gate when Chris found the fence distasteful.

On the fourth day, God created a high, brick fence. It reminded Chris of royalty. Behind the high, brick fence was a large house with two-storeys. The chimney was large, the ceilings high, the kitchen with a nice, big island, and shiny wooden floorboards. It had a large bedroom, with a big closet that had enough floor space for Jal’s shoe collection, and a big study with a large window. Outside was a willowy tree with frangipanis growing on it. Chris found the large garden, with the barbeque and potential for a pool, to be very, very good. 

*

**eight: 2013**

**(2001) chris is 23, chris is 12**

Chris materialises at the graveyard. Instinctively, he walks to Peter’s grave. He doesn’t know how long he sits there until he appears.

He remembers his fear, and how disoriented he felt. He remembers the guilt weighing down heavily on his small, weak shoulders. He remembers the few seconds he spent in this graveyard, feeling alone and scared.

Chris watches on helplessly as he disappears.

He stands by Peter’s grave. “You watch out for him, you here?” Placing his hand on the gravestone, Chris vanishes.

*

**nine: 2014**

**jal is 24, michelle is 24**

Michelle’s birthday party is a “fun and sophisticated event”, just as the invitation had said in cursive font. There was no food on the walls and no sleeping half naked on the lounges. Everyone acted decently ... that was, until the strip poker was introduced.

After the party, Jal follows Michelle into her kitchen. She has a few empty glasses in one hand, a half-drunken bottle of wine in the other.

“I’m old,” Michelle laughs, putting the plates beside the sink. “I can’t believe this day has come.”

“What, your birthday?” Chris walks in, placing another few plates next to Michelle’s pile. He’s got his eyebrow raised. He exits the room before finding out an answer.

“Ignore him,” Jal says, opening the wine. She grabs two glasses from the cupboard and pours the wine in them. She hands a glass to Michelle. “It’s your birthday, ‘Chelle.” She takes a sip of her wine. “And no cake was thrown. I think that that’s a pretty good sign.”

“I know,” Michelle says, taking a long sip. She almost drains the glass. “I just miss being young.”

Jal frowns. “You _are_ young.”

Michelle waves her hand. “You get what I mean.” Jal takes a sip of her wine. “It wasn’t the same. Cassie wasn’t here.”

Jal shrugs. “Her prerogative.”

“I know,” Michelle says. “I know she’s busy in Scotland and getting her shit sorted out.” She takes a sip of her wine, emptying her glass. Michelle points her finger in Jal’s direction, her voice raising as she says, “She better get her shit sorted out,” she says, placing her empty glass on the counter. She grabs the bottle and fills the glass to the brim. “If she hurts my Sid again –”

“All hell will break loose. We _know_ , ‘Chelle. None of us are standing for it, either.”

Michelle takes a long sip. “I know. I just – I miss it, sometimes. The ridiculousness of our lives.”

Jal frowns. “I don’t follow. You have Tony, ‘Chelle. You’ve always wanted Tony.”

“I know,” she says, almost wistfully. “But now, there’s so much more that I want.” She takes a sip. She looks down at her counter, running her fingers along the wood. “I guess, with getting older, you start wanting new things.”

Jal waits for Michelle to continue. She takes a sip of her wine, draining the glass. She figures some things never change, like how Michelle needs someone to encourage her that they are, in fact, listening and do, in fact, care, contrary to what they’re really feeling. Jal clears her throat. “What kind of things?”

Michelle shrugs, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t know,” she says, twisting away from her. Jal wonders if she’s embarrassed at all. She doesn’t think so. Michelle leans into her, whispering, “I’ve been thinking about kids.”

Jal doesn’t see how this is such a secret. “Oh,” she says. She wonders if there is something wrong with her, when she hasn’t thought about having kids herself. She knows Sid’s new bird, the one he’s been dating for over a year, wants some little Sidneys with beanies and glasses running around. “Have you told Tony?”

“I’m planning on it. I just need to see if he’s there.”

“There,” Jal repeats.

Michelle nods. “In the same place.” She looks at Jal expectantly with her eyebrows slightly raised. “You know,” she laughs, it sounds fake to Jal, “the same place. Like ... moving in.”

Jal nods. “Sure,” she says, though she frowns. “Chris and I are in the same place,” she says. She doesn’t really know where the hell she and Chris are. All she does know is that he is with her, right now, and that’s all she wants.

*

**(2014) chris is 24, jal is 24**

“Did you ever ...” she leaves it there, letting it descend to the twirls of sheets.

Chris shuffles, pushing the sheets up his back. “Did I ever what?”

Jal bites her lip. Chris sits up in the bed, resting his back against the headboard and his soft pillow. He frowns as he watches her hesitate. His foot begins to fall asleep. “Did you ever try to save Tony?” she asks in a quiet voice. She looks at him from the corner of her eye.

Chris looks down at the sheets, tugging at random spots. He moves, his foot prickling with pins and needles. He places it against Jal’s calf, pressing it hard. Slowly, the pins and needles recede. “Yes,” he says, before coughing into his closed fist. “I did. Once. I was ... too late.”

Jal nods, pushing her leg into his. The pins and needles recede into a faint hum. “You don’t go back to that moment.”

“No,” Chris says, shaking his head. “I try to. I _want_ to –”

Jal moves her foot to rest under his. Her toes are cold when they press against his ankle. “It just doesn’t work that way.”

The pins and needles are gone. Chris reaches for the remote on the side drawer. He hits a button a few times, the television not sparking to life. Jal takes the remote off of him, pressing a button once before the television hums, the sound incredibly loud. She lowers the volume as he pouts, saying, “Nothin’ ever works the way I want it to.”

Jal smiles, placing the remote in his lap, and leans down to press her cheek against his arm. “You’re hopeless,” she murmurs before placing a kiss on his shoulder.

Chris shrugs his other shoulder. 

*

**ten: 2015**

**(2015) jal is 25, tony is 26**

This was all Chris’ idea. 

Five days ago, he wanted a party, and here it is. Jal doesn’t like hosting parties. She doesn’t like the mess that comes with her friends. Or _used_ to. They haven’t hung out like this in a few years. Meeting up at the cinemas and little cafes and accidental bump-ins at the grocery store don’t count. Not everyone has been present for those meet-ups.

But Chris has been _gone_ and she knows he needs to find some ground. Without it, he’s dizzy and disoriented and, even though she shouldn’t think this, she hates that she has to deal with it and be responsible for grounding him. She feels dizzy and disoriented every time he comes home after days of being gone. Jal’s become so used to living by herself that she has to readjust living with another person. She feels like she’s twenty-one again.

They sit outside. Apparently, this is what “sophisticated adults do”, as according to Michelle. Her backyard hasn’t seen this much activity since they moved in. 

“Tony and I are trying for a baby,” Michelle smiles, trying to contain her excitement. “I hope to avoid having a summer baby, but –”

Jal’s feet itch to move. She excuses herself from the outside table, taking three empty glasses inside and to the kitchen. She finds Tony in the kitchen. “What are you doing in here?” she says, her hands on her hips. She smiles as Tony jumps.

Tony laughs. “I needed a breather.”

“We _do_ have a backyard for that,” she moves towards him, placing a glass in the sink and washing it out. “If this is your idea of a breather, then you’ve been cooped up too long.”

Tony rests his lower back on the kitchen island. He shrugs, though she misses it. “I didn’t want to be rude and stand off to the side, admiring your orchids.”

Jal shakes her head. She places the glass in the drying rack and turns around. “Tony,” she says, still smiling. “You _can_ admire my orchids. I didn’t grow them for nothing.”

Tony inhales loudly, nodding.

Jal looks down at her feet. “Michelle’s talking about your adventure in baby land.”

Tony groans, rolling his eyes. “I wanted to keep it quiet, but you know ‘Chelle.”

“So you are trying?”

He nods. “We’ve finally got our shit together. I love ‘Chelle,” he says, shrugging. Tony doesn’t make eye contact with her, his cheeks a faint pink.

Jal smiles. Before she can open her mouth to say anything, Tony says, “Did you know he used to visit me? After my accident?”

Jal crosses her arms over her chest. She looks at him, her eyebrow kinked slightly.

“He did. Your Chris,” he says, to clarify. Jal’s frown deepens. He knows she’s trying to place it. It has become a custom for them to place the Chris’ in their lives. “At the pool,” he says, with a shrug, “When no one else came.”

“Oh.”

“He was crazy about you. Your Chris. And old Chris, who was quite young. It was written all over his face.” He looks at her. “You’re not following, are you?”

She gives him a laugh, although it is hollow. “No, not at all.”

Tony shrugs. “Well,” he says, moving towards her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “at least I had a go. In my opinion, you’re all hopeless until you get hit by a bus.”

*

**(2008) chris is 25, tony 18**

Tony finds Chris outside by the other pool. His black pant legs are pulled up as high as they can go, which is somewhere pathetically below his knee. Tony sits beside him, placing his bare legs into the pool. He tries to flatten out his shorts underneath him to protect the back of his thighs from the hot pavement.

“I always thought you were scared of pools,” Tony says.

“Yeah, man.” Chris says, swinging his legs. Water touches the edge of his folded pants. “Although –“ he stops. “I don’t know, it’s just – by having this thing, I’ve discovered some things about myself.”

Tony pauses, putting his hand in the pool. “Like what?”

“Peter taught me how to conquer my fear.” He looks up at Tony, before placing his finger in the water and turning his attention to his side, away from him. He starts writing things on the drive pavement with the water, like he used to when he was younger. No one had a pool, but they’d always find a bucket to fill up and throw water on each other. “He taught me how to swim when I was, like, five. I never really remembered it.”

Tony licks his dry lips. “You learn something new every day,” he says, kicking his legs and splashing Chris.

-

**(2015) chris is 25, jal is 25**

Jal walks into the kitchen. She stops. “You’re back,” she says, although it doesn’t generate the reaction he was hoping for.

“Yeah,” Chris says, for a lack of anything better. Jal continues to stand outside the doorway, looking at him.

“Did you visit him?” she asks.

Chris blinks. “Visit who?”

“Tony,” she says, voice thick. He opens his mouth to speak but she continues. “When they came over for the party, he said some things about you,” she nods to him, as if indicating him, this Chris, not his past self, “visited him at the pool during his physical therapy.”

“When he was learning to swim,” Chris says to himself. His arm goes around the back of his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I just ... ended up there.”

“How long have you been going?”

“Not long,” he says. He’s only gone twice so far, although it’s only March. 

Jal sits down next to him. “Do you ...”

“Do I what?”

“Do you ever try to change ... what happened?” He thinks back to how last year he went back to Angie. “To Tony,” she says, as an afterthought.

“Of course I puckin’ do,” he says. “It weighs on me every day, having this thing. What use am i if i can’t change that one thing?”

“Maybe it’s fate?”

“No,” he says. “It’s just sheer bad luck.” He exits the kitchen with sagged shoulders.

*

**(2019); chris is 25**

Chris materialises in a room he barely recognises anymore. It's his old house. The walls are the familiar pale of unkemptness. Graffiti pants the walls. He reads a few of the obscenities before his feet follow a familiar pattern and move to his room. His pills packets no longer stick to the wall. Chris fumbles through a broken dresser to find some clothes that pull tight across his middle and the pants end just before his ankle. He feels uncomfortable; out of his realm. There isn’t a mirror in the room but he knows he looks more ridiculous than his usual brightly coloured contrasting clothes and short three-quarter pants. He hopes this visit ends soon.

He walks out of the room and down the flight of groaning stairs. He doesn't check to see if anyone is home. Is this a home? Was it ever a home? He shuts the door silently, as though to not awaken the world to his presence; to not let it know that he’s here, and he doesn’t belong. 

His feet follow a familiar path to the park. The walk is quicker than he remembers, although, he must admit, he hasn’t been to the park since he was twelve. He sees a newspaper in the bin pushed haphazardly into it and grabs it, folding it over and over as he walks quickly to a bench. He sits, looking around quickly at people who barely notice his presence, his silly ankles exposed. He folds the newspaper open. 

He hums. "2019. Pucking fantastic.” He opens it up to see a headline blasting some politician he can’t recall from home. “I hate March." He shakes his head and skims over the recent events, flicking through the newspaper and creasing it.

The newspaper has fed him all the information he needs, which isn’t much. He knows the date, the prime minister, and that there is nothing about Jal and her music career he had predicted happening years ago. He scrunches up the newspaper the best he can and places it on the ground near his feet. A girl playing on the play set catches his attention. She’s small, with tanned skin, and her mother is standing on the opposite side of the park, her face a blur because of the distance. He can hear the girl’s laughter and calls out to her mother.

Chris doesn’t know how long he sits there, feeling content and a pang of _something_ he won’t be able to identify for a long time, before he vanishes.

*

**(2008); chris is 25, tony is 18**

Tony is adamant about moving their meeting place to somewhere more desirable. Chris protests, of course. They’re walking outside the pool, on the path. Tony wants ice-cream. Chris wants to hide.

“What do we do in the future?” Tony asks, running a hand through his slow drying hair. On the path, he makes sure Chris is walking on the side closest to the road. Chris doesn’t know if this is intentional, but he’s happy to oblige. It’s the least he could do. “You and I. Do we golf? Do we smoke cigars?”

“Nah, mate. None of that fancy shit.” He taps his fingers against a pole as they come to the end of the path. He watches the cars as they pass, waiting for an opening to cross. “We play cards.”

They cross the road. Tony’s pace is a little quicker than Chris’. He tries to keep up with him without trying to make it obvious. He’s not sure if it works. Tony is frowning with a smile, trying to picture them playing an assortment of card games. Chris laughs at his expression. “Cards? As in ‘Go Fish’ and that one where you smack your hand on the table?”

“Yeah. I kick your ass in every game we play.”

“So ...” Tony says, watching his feet and stepping over the big cracks in the pavement. “We’re good friends, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, stepping on a crack, “plenty good.”

*

**(2015) jal is 25, michelle is 25**

“Tony and I have just been very busy,” Michelle says, sipping her milkshake. “He knows how much I want a baby. It’s just ...”

“Timing,” Jal says, picking at her donut. 

Michelle nods. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t even have the problem –” Michelle’s voice stops abruptly like she’s hit an audio wall. She looks down, her face flushing. “I’m sorry.”

Jal waves her hand. “What? No. Don’t be. I chose to get into this, damn the repercussions of my decision.” She rubs her hands together, trying to get rid of the cinnamon clinging to her skin. “I love Chris,” she says, quietly. Jal looks down at her plate, with her picked-at donut. “I would rather have Chris than not have him at all.”

Michelle nods, leaning forward on the table. Her voice is quiet when she says, “Do you want ... kids?”

Jal shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, avoiding Michelle’s eyes. She doesn’t want to look at her and her soft expression. “I don’t want to be like my mother.”

“You won’t be. You’re nothing like her,” Michelle says quickly. She grabs Jal’s hand and places it between both of hers. Michelle’s hands are warm. “You’ve stuck with Chris during all of this. You haven’t left. You’re not her.”

Jal places her other hand in her lap. “Give it time –”

“That’s all we have,” Michelle says, pressing her hands tighter around Jal’s. “You’re giving Chris – and yourself – time. That’s more than what your mother has ever done for you.” Jal avoids Michelle’s gaze. “Now, eat your donut. We’re going shoe shopping.”

Jal rolls her eyes.

*

**(2019); chris is 25**

He walks over to the park. A little girl is sitting on his regular bench. She looks faintly familiar. But he changes his route, anyway. The one thing he carries with him during his travels is Jal’s advice to stay away from strangers and anyone who has seen you more than once. Although he doubts this girl has ever seen him. But this is shot to hell when she says, “Checker pants.” 

He slowly approaches her. He stops with a good distance between the bench and himself. A leaf from the tree he stands under hits him on the shoulder. “Hi, there,” he says.

She’s grinning so big. “Hi,” she says, almost shyly.

“Er, how are you?” Chris says, placing his hands in his back pockets. 

“Good,” she says.

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she says. She swings her legs slightly. “Are you having a nice walk?”

Chris blinks. “Sure. Are you having fun ... sitting?”

She nods, humming an affirmative. Conversation seems to disperse itself after that.

*

**(2015) chris is 25, jal is 25**

“Hey,” Chris says, closing the back door behind him. Jal’s sitting at the outside table, a paperback novel in her hands. He gestures to the door when he says, “Where’s my clock?”

Jal pauses, frowning. “What?”

“My clock,” he says. “The cat one. You know? The Chinese cat with the bags and the kids toys made of it? I say hello to it every morning. It was here yesterday ...”

“Oh,” Jal says, closing her book. “It’s in a box in the garage.”

“What’s it doin’ in there?”

Jal frowns. “I put it in there.” She pauses. Chris waits. “You’ve been gone a lot this year.”

“I know. I can’t help it –”

“I _know_. I’m just ... I’m just tired of sitting here, staring at the clock. Sometimes you’re gone for a good two weeks and here I am, sitting and staring at that hideous clock.”

Chris moves to sit next to her. “Hey. Jalander,” he says, trying to make her laugh. Her mouth doesn’t budge from its firm straight line. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to spend weeks waiting for me –”

“I don’t like spending weeks waiting for you. When you are gone, it’s like time stands still. I wait for you and wait for you and when I finally have you, you’re gone again. I just can _not_ do this sometimes.”

Chris seems to sober up. He pulls back from her slightly, frowning. “What are you saying? You don’t want to do this anymore?”

“No!” Jal turns to look at him. “I just _want_ more things of my life. I can’t live my life while I wait for you. And I can’t live my life without you.” She looks down at the table, picking at the edge of her paperback. She says, quietly, “I haven’t pursued music. Not once.”

Chris finally gains his voice. “Jal –”

“I’m going inside for an ice-cream. Do you want one?” She pushes herself up from the table, the chair scraping against the cement.

Chris looks up at her. “No, thanks.”

Jal nods, sliding the backdoor and moving inside. It slams shut. Chris picks at her paperback novel with the sun baking his back.

*

**(2008) chris is 25, tony is 18**

Chris is sitting at the regular table with his back to him, reading a newspaper.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Tony laughs. Chris turns around and smiles as Tony approaches. “You’re still looking old for wear.”

“Thanks mate, you don’t look too bad yourself,” Chris says as Tony sits down. He doesn’t. He looks more vibrant and alive – like the Tony he knows.

“So, what’s on the agenda today? Tuna sandwich?”

Chris shakes his head. “Travelling on a full stomach always ends up with me and my head in a toilet bowl. It’s not a pretty sight – not when I have plans with my lady friend,” he grins.

Tony grins. “Anyone I know?”

“Gentlemen never kiss and tell.”

“Well, Chris, you’re no gentleman.”

“People change.”

*

**(2019) chris is 25**

“Where are you coming from?”

Chris blinks. “Pardon?”

“What year are you coming from? Mum says from the past but the last time I met you here you were from the future. I think you got your dates a bit muddled.”

Chris continues to blink. “Er, I think you’re ... mistaken. Hugely, mistaken. See, I’ve got no clue –”

“You said you were a chicken without a head when you were younger,” she laughs. Chris frowns. He’s only met this girl a few times, and during those times, he’s steered clear from anything about himself. He curses one of his past or future selves; he’s not sure which one, who has divulged this information. He wonders, briefly, when he became so sloppy.

“I ... don’t think you understand what that means entirely,” he says. “I have my head and it’s screwed on ... tightly.”

She laughs.

“I’m fu – I’m _very_ serious, missy. Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

She’s still laughing, though the air around them sobers. “You shouldn’t say things like that. Mummy gets very upset.” She frowns at the expression on his face, which he feels tingling. The tingling spreads across his body, taking hold of all his limbs. “You’re going,” the girl says, her voice sad. 

This is the first time he disappears in broad daylight.

-

**(2015) chris is 25 and jal is 25**

When he comes back, Jal is in the kitchen. He can smell fresh chicken from the hallway.

“Hey,” he says, moving past the doorframe on unsteady legs. He stops to gain his bearings. His gaze is directed to what she’s ripping on the table. “We havin’ chicken tonight?” A warm chicken sits on a chopping board already missing a wing.

“Yeah,” Jal says without looking up. She grabs the knife sitting by the board, the blade already glistening with bits of chicken, and cuts into it. “Where did you go?”

Chris swallows, his hand immediately meeting the back of his neck. He palms it, feeling the heat of his palm against the chilled skin of his neck. He almost hisses. “Er,” he says, and then stops.

Jal looks up. He hasn’t seen her at all today. She looks tired. “What’s the problem?”

Chris laughs. “Well,” he says his hand dropping to his sides as he approaches. “We definitely do end up together in the end.”

She cocks her eyebrow.

“I met ...” his hip meets the edge of the counter. “I met ...” he tries again. Jal stops ripping the chicken, her hands pasted with wetness which seem to glow under the kitchen lights. “What do you say about us having kids?”

Jal blinks. “What?” She goes to cross her arms over her chest but thinks better, looking at her greasy hands and leans for the washing up cloth. “What are you saying?”

Chris shrugs and grabs a piece of chicken. He says around the chicken with his eyes downcast, “I’m saying that ... I met ... our kid today.” He feels as though the air is escaping from his chest, his pulse quickening in his throat. He places his hand on the back of his neck and lets his palm slide down his shoulder, trying to calm the storm brewing within him.

Jal’s eyebrow is cocked. He watches her face as she is still for a few seconds until she continues to wipe her hands, toss the cloth to the side and remains silent. Her face doesn’t move an inch. Chris’ eyebrows are pinched until he sees her mouth twitch; her fingers lose their grip on the stilled knife for only a moment. “Kid, Chris?” She resumes tearing at the chicken. 

“Yeah,” he says, hand reaching for another piece of chicken. She slaps the back of his hand. “Ow, Jal.” He licks his lip. “We have a –”

“No,” she says, waving her hand to stop him. She glances at him, but speaks with her gaze directed to the chicken pieces. “I don’t want to know.”

Chris’ first instinct is to ask ‘Why not?’ but he bites his tongue. He watches Jal as she finishes ripping the chicken, wiping her hands on the cloth and carrying the chopping board to the bin. Jal doesn’t meet his eyes. She seems tired, all of a sudden. “Alright,” he says, although it is perhaps a little too late.

She picks up a piece of the chicken she’s torn from the carcass and hands it to him. It looks like a peace offering. “Would you be able to set the table?” she says, and he nods as he eats the piece of chicken.

“Sure,” he says, opening drawers to gather the cutlery.

They move to the table. Jal pulls at the tablecloth, straightening it out. Chris starts picking at his chicken.

“So,” Jal says, cutting into her potatoes. “What did our ... kid say?”

Chris tries to swallow his chicken whole. He’s about to say ‘she’ but withholds. “Er, good things.” He nods, swallowing. He takes his glass and almost empties it. “Says you’re a good Mum,” he smiles at this. Jal looks down, her mouth a line. “Says that ... I don’t travel anymore.” 

Jal looks up, setting her knife and fork down. Her eyebrows are drawn together. “What do you mean?”

Chris shrugs. “I ... don’t travel anymore – from the future to that future ... that present.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Jal says. She’s fighting tears. 

“Maybe that I’m not in that future, Jal.”


	3. part three

**the end**

In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.   
\- Abraham Lincoln

*

**(2013) chris is 25, jal is 23**

He ends up at the park. There are clothes hidden behind a bush, just where she said she had left them. He remembers Jal talking about this meeting two years ago. He had no clue what she was on about at the time.

“Hi,” she says. She sits next to him on the park bench. She looks younger, more vibrant. “You look sad, Mopey-Boots.”

Chris shrugs, “Seems to be the habit these days.”

“What’s going on?”

Chris waves his hand. “Nothin’.”

“C’mon, Chris. You can’t just toss in the bait and not reel the fish in.”

Chris grins. “So, you’re a fish, ‘ey?”

Jal rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Chris hums. “We’re fighting,” he says. “Sort of. It’s silent ragey ... stuff.”

“What about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, too quickly. “The matter is is that we’re not talking,” he says. He looks down. “It’s bugging the fuck out of me.”

Jal smiles. “Well,” she says, slapping his leg. “Do somethin’ about it.”

“It’s not that easy, Jal,” he says, looking at her. “It’s not like I can write ‘Yes’ on a post-it note and stick it to your fivehead.”

“Hey!” 

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s rather beautiful, your fivehead, that is. I can see my rather handsome reflection in it.” He flicks her forehead. 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not a fucking child, Chris.”

“Yes, I know.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Sometimes I wonder why I like you.”

“I am rather good-looking.”

“Completely subjective.”

“You’re not very nice.”

-

**(2015) jal is 25, maxxie is 25**

Jal counts the silence between the strikes of thunder. She gets to six before it hits the earth again. Chris disappeared four hours ago, for the seventh time that month. The clothes he involuntarily left strewn on the floor are now folded, sitting on the edge of their bed. Jal sits on the lounge, the television flickering soft light around the room, with the thunder drowning out the volume and her thoughts.

She hears, between the thunder’s breaths, a knock at the door.

“Max?” she frowns, her mouth tilting into a questioning smile. Maxxie is soaked to the bone, with a big bag sitting by his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Was jus’ in the neighbourhood,” he says, distracted with wringing out the water from his jacket. He creates a small pond on the welcome mat Ace and Lynton bought for her leaving-home party.

“Max,” Jal says, eyes narrowing as he squirms. Instantly, she thinks he must feel uncomfortable. The air is crisp and the nights have become cooler as the seasons shift. “You were nowhere near the neighbourhood,” she says, reaching for his bag and placing it off to the side of the entrance. Maxxie stays where he is, wringing out his clothes.

He shakes his head, little bits of water splattering everywhere. She feels some tickle her cheeks. “Nah. But I thought you may like some company.”

Immediately, she frowns. “Did Chris ask –”

“No. Sometimes i want to spend some time with my friend Jal.” He leans in, wriggling his nose as a drop of water slides along his skin, escaping from his hairline. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says, whispering, “but she’s pretty rad.”

“I don’t think people say that anymore,” she says, smiling. The thunder hits the earth once again. 

Maxxie shrugs, taking a few steps forward. He tries to wring out more water from his jacket sleeves. “Well,” he runs his hand through his hair. “You gonna invite me in?”

Jal moves to the side, punching him in the shoulder when he passes.

“I’m wet and now I’m hurt,” Maxxie smiles, leaning down for his bag and picking it up.

Jal walks to the kitchen. She calls out, “Don’t drip on my carpet!”

Maxxie’s laugh follows her. 

After warming up, and having a few rounds of hot chocolates and cups of tea, Maxxie breaks in the guest bedroom.

“No one’s ever slept in here before,” Jal says from the doorway. She leans against it with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Well,” Maxxie fluffs a pillow. “I promise to be gentle.”

She smiles. Looking at the bed spread, she sees Maxxie’s things laid out neatly before him. A few shirts, some shorts, and some pants. She sees a book or two sitting near the head of the bed, almost tucked away under the bedspread. “How much shit did you bring?”

Maxxie counts in his head. He hums as he makes a show of calculating. “Just a bag,” he grins, kicking his bag back behind him. It doesn’t move a significant amount, but seems to keel on its side. “I didn’t want to impose.”

“You’re never imposing,” Jal says, immediately.

Maxxie cocks his eyebrow. “That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“Thank god I got that right,” she says, smiling. “If you need anything –”

“I know where everything is,” he says, picking up a shirt and throwing it to the other side of the bed. He looks down at his shorts, searching through the four pairs. “I helped you move in, remember?”

“I still cannot find my lucky watch,” she says, smiling. 

“Finders keepers,” he sings. Maxxie sits down on the bed. “Do you know where he is?”

Jal turns slightly against the door. She looks at the pillows sitting nice and straight against the headboard. “Faintly. I think he’s with me when I was 23.”

“Do you get ... feelings?”

She shakes her head. “No. I just ... suddenly remember something. It might be a word or a smell or something I saw. I just know he’s with me.” What lingers in the air is what she doesn’t say. ‘He’s with me, but he’s not here with _me_.’

*

**chris is 25, jal is 25**

Chris falls down onto the bed, pushing himself up on his stomach until his lower legs are hanging off of the bed. “Jal,” he says, playing with her toes.

“Chris,” she laughs when he finds a spot she’s ticklish. She puts her book down on her lap. “What is it?”

“Can Jal come out and play?”

She shakes her head. “I’m busy.”

“Reading isn’t as fun as what I have planned,” he says, brushing his fingers along the arch of her foot. She pulls it away, laughing. 

“Tickling me isn’t fun.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind,” he grins.

Jal’s face stiffens. “Chris,” she says, finality in her tone. It makes him look up, the smile falling off his face and his hands stilling on her foot. 

He looks down onto the bedspread. He picks at it. “I think we should talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Jal,” he says, looking up at her. “When I went to the future, I saw us with a kid.”

Her jaw tightens. “When I think about our future, I see you _in_ it. _With_ me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, shuffling on the bed until she’s kneeling in front of him. “But I don’t want kids, Chris.”

“Why not?” He places his hand on her knee. “You’d be a great mother.”

She scoffs. “I don’t ... want kids.”

“Does this have something to do with your mother?” he says. She cocks her eyebrow. “‘Chelle was tellin’ me –”

Jal pulls away. “Jesus Christ –”

Chris sits up. “Why don’t you talk to _me_?”

“Because you are never here!” 

“I’m here now,” he says, trying to straighten himself on his knees. “So, talk to me.”

Jal’s body seems to sag. Her straight posture disappears. She picks at the duvet. With her eyes downcast, she murmurs slowly, “I do not want to be my mother.”

Chris tilts his head so he’s looking up at her. He tries to catch her eyes. “You’re not your mother.”

She looks at him. Her hands settle on her bent knees. “How do you know? How do we know this kid won’t travel? How do we know we can rewrite this kid’s genes, Chris?”

Chris bites the inside of his mouth. “We don’t,” he says. He places his hands over hers. “But I may know someone who might.”

-

Chris finds the card on the fridge. It’s hidden behind a piece of paper he wrote on, something about tin cans and string. He’s not sure what he was thinking when he wrote that.

He finds the phone in its cradle by the sink. Moving to the kitchen table, he sits on a chair and presses his fingers against the buttons. “Hello? Is this Dr SomethingWhat’s office?”

-

He waits until the dust has settled before he corners her in the kitchen. He makes her sit at the kitchen table. She crosses and uncrosses her legs as he tries to explain what he’s done.

“Chris, I’m not getting my hopes up –”

“I don’t want you to,” he says, standing. He paces, trying to gather his words. She watches him move back and forth, wearing out the wooden floorboards. “I just want us to give it a chance. You should have met her.”

“I don’t understand –”

“When I travelled to the future, I met our kid.”

“I know this –”

“If you let me finish,” he says, smiling. Jal bites her bottom lip to keep herself from interrupting. “When I travel, I’m quite fond of reading newspapers. I found this article on this doctor I remember hearing about when I was younger and travelled.”

Her brows crinkle. “You travelled to the future before?” When they were younger, he used to tell her about all the things he’d seen. About all the people he’d met. About all the feelings he’d felt. He’d opened up about Peter, albeit reluctantly, and she only got a few details from those trips, but he still spoke about them. She doesn’t remember any stories about him going to the future. _Their_ future.

He shrugs. “I don’t remember it. But the name gave me funny ... feelings.” His brows furrow.

“Deja vu.”

He nods. “So when I travelled to the past, I found him. I pleaded my case and he thought I was crazy.”

She grins, surmising, “Too soon.”

Chris nods. “Yep. So I called his future office, which is his present office, and I hit the jackpot.”

“Again,” she says, grinning. 

“Yes, m’dear,” Chris says, grabbing her hand. His grip is so tight and warm. “It does appear that lightning can, indeed, strike the same spot twice.”

*

**eleven: 2014**

**jal is 26**

Jal thinks it’s stupid to be jealous of herself. 

She remembers being twenty-two when Chris visited her. She was upset about her clarinet. Sitting at their usual bus stop, she hadn’t expected him to walk up in odd clothes and sit down next to her. He had pushed the side of his body up against hers; giving her none of the breathing space she wanted. She remembers him telling her to stop being such a ‘Mopey-Boots’ and that in the future, she’s something great. He guarantees it.

She remembers the hope he elicited after that visit. She also remembers him running off to hide behind a thick tree to disappear. 

Later, she remembers being twenty-five. Chris, a younger one, had visited her. It was a short visit. She doesn’t think he saw her. It had only lasted two minutes. She’d spotted him hanging around the backyard of their house. He was disoriented, butt-naked, and picking at her dead flowers.

She remembers being twenty-one, twenty-two and twenty-three, having him return after six hours of being gone. 

At twenty-six, he’s been gone for fourteen days, six hours, thirty-six minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

*

**chris is 26, jal is 26, michelle is 26, tony is 26**

“Just because I cannot cook to save my life doesn’t mean I cannot host a good lunch!” Michelle laughs, moving from the island in the kitchen to the sink. Jal stays at the stove, mixing the spaghetti sauce around. “C’mon, Jal,” Michelle laughs, turning to her, “back a sister up!”

Jal looks over her shoulder, smiling, “I won’t deny it.”

“Thank you!” Michelle exclaims loudly, laughing. She holds her hands out in a wild gesture, as if asking for a hug. “Even while I’m heavily pregnant,” she looks pointedly at Tony, “I still make the greatest hostess.”

“Still,” says Chris, grabbing knives and forks from the drawers. “A good hostess does not a lunch make.”

Jal frowns. “What the fuck, Chris? You hold dinner parties and let me tell you, babe, it’s not you standing in the kitchen!”

He shrugs, holding his arms up in a wild gesture. The knives and forks look like finger extensions. “Fuck it. I’m inadequate. What are you gonna do?” He goes to the kitchen and sets the table for four. He returns with the extra two forks and one knife he had accidentally picked up. Chris moves to Jal, wrapping his arms around her waist. “That smells good.”

Jal rolls her eyes. She grits out, “Thanks.” She places the spoon on a plate sitting by the stove and covers the pan with its lid. She turns, manoeuvring herself out of Chris’ arms. She grabs the bread from the island and starts cutting into it.

Michelle stops washing up, leaving the tap running hard. “Oh!” She leaves her arms floating on either side of her, waiting for something. Jal watches her from the corner of her eye. “Oh! Jal, c’mere,” she mutters, her hands pressing to her abdomen. 

Jal moves over to Michelle, who takes her hands and places it underneath her hands. Jal feels the warmth of her body heat through her maternity top. She waits. Michelle looks at her expectantly as they stand in the kitchen, silent. Then she feels a little bump against her hand. “Oh my,” she mumbles.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Michelle grins.

Jal bites her bottom lip, nodding. 

*

**(2016) chris is 26, jal is 26**

It happens in threes:

-

 **one** late March – late April

Jal sits by him on the steps outside the house. “Baking?” she laughs.

Chris nods, watching what he can see of the empty street. “Always, babe.” He looks at her from the corner of his eye. “What’s wrong?”

Jal bites the bottom of her lip. “Nothing has to be wrong if I want to sit here with you.”

“But your show is on. Y’know, the one with all the sex.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she says to the yard and street before them. She turns to look at Chris. 

His face doesn’t move for what she counts as five Mississippi’s. Then, she heats up, he smiles. “Really?” he whispers. He doesn’t wait for her response when he envelopes her in a hug.

-

Chris buys a calendar. At the end of each day, he writes one word. Three Wednesdays ago it was ‘Orange juice’. Last Thursday, it was ‘Sick’. Yesterday it was ‘Girl’. (She doesn’t really understand how Chris came to the conclusion that they were having a girl, but she doesn’t dare ask. Sometimes it is better to not understand Chris’ logic.)

When they lose it , it takes Jal three days to notice the calendar has disappeared. The pages he wrote on are scrunched up in the bin.

-

 **two:** early July – early September

Tonight is Italian night mixed with a Bruce Willis movie. Chris bans her from cooking in the kitchen. She can smell the spaghetti sauce from in the lounge room.

When he hears her footsteps, he angles his body so he can point at her. “No,” he says, tasting his sauce. “No Jalander’s allowed.”

She rolls her eyes. She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “I promise to not cook.” Chris cocks his eyebrow. “Promise,” she says, sidling up to him. “That smells good.”

He continues to stir. “Thank you,” he says quietly, a little embarrassed.

Jal stares at the side of his face. He continues to stir his sauce, putting in more herbs from the little bottles she bought at the store a week ago. “Chris,” she says, and he hums. “I’m pregnant.”

He turns to look at her, a small smile on his face. “Really?”

She nods. 

“Well,” he says, placing the spoon on the side. The sauce drips onto the counter. He envelopes her in a hug, though he doesn’t wrap his arms around her as tightly as before. “This calls for a celebration.”

He lets her choose the movie for the night.

-

The calendar reappears on the kitchen counter by the sink, missing two months. Chris makes sure not to wet it when he washes up dishes. He continues to write words on it, such as ‘Autumn’, ‘Winter’, ‘Pickles’ and ‘No gender – alien :)’.

When they lose it , Jal finds the calendar in the bin. Chris had tipped leftover sauce on top of it.

-

 **three:** late October – mid December

Chris is in the shower. Jal sits on the lid of the toilet as she listens to him sing a Britney Spears song. She is going to make Anwar regret ever purchasing her finest collections CD.

“Hey, babe,” Chris says when he sees her. He’s soaping under his arms. She hopes he’s not using her loofah and body wash. He opens the sliding door, peeking his head out. There is soap all over him. He grins, “Wanna join me?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d never make it out alive,” she says. Chris disappears to wash the soap off of him, leaving the door ajar. “Your singing is horrific.”

“Oi!” he calls from under the spray. When he appears again, there is less soap clinging to his skin. “That was hurtful.”

“I’m sorry,” she smiles. Chris ducks back in to wash the remnants of soap off. Jal taps her feet against the tiles. “I’m pregnant,” she says, quickly.

Chris peeks his head out. “Come again?”

“I’m pregnant,” she says a little softer.

Chris grins, “Sorry, didn’t hear you. I think you need to come a lil’ closer.”

Jal rolls her eyes. She gets up from the toilet lid and walks over to him. “I’m pregnant,” she says slower.

Chris rolls his eyes. “I know, I heard you. Just ‘cause I’m old – and fantastically good-looking – doesn’t mean I’m deaf,” he says, grinning. She narrows her eyes. Before she can say anything, he pulls her into the shower.

-

Chris doesn’t buy a calendar. He finds post-it notes and sticks them all around the bedroom. Jal reads them when she brushes her teeth. They range from ‘Hi Jal’ to ‘Puppy’ to ‘Exclamation Point’ to ‘Buy more shorts’. Even when she looks, she can never find the post-it notes relating specifically to the baby.

When they lose it , the post-its remain around the bedroom. The ones with reminders, such as ‘Pasta’ and ‘Tomato sauce’, disappear eventually. They don’t make a big deal about Christmas.

-

**chris is 26, jal is 26, michelle is 26**

Michelle has her baby mid September, early in the morning when the sky is a nice, lovely pink. She has tiny curls sprinkled atop her head and her mother’s oddly pointed nose.

Jal finds Chris outside the hospital, leaning against a wall and smoking a spliff. She feels the wind wrap its arms around her, tugging at the stray strands of her hair. “I thought you quit,” she says, stuffing her hands into her cardigan pockets.

Chris shrugs, exhaling. “Pills,” he says, taking another puff. “I quit pills.”

Jal nods, coming to stand next to him. She leans against the wall, mimicking his stance. “You should quit,” she says.

“I know,” he finishes it, dropping it onto the pavement and stamping his foot on it. “You keep telling me that.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Quit?” Chris looks at her, his eyes a bit droopy. His hair is a mess. The silence stretches upon them. Eventually, he says, “I have nerves Jal. It’s the only way to calm them.”

Jal narrows her eyes, shaking her head. “Yeah, nerves,” she says, spitting the words at him. “I’m going back inside. It’s cold out here.”

-

Chris lies to her. “Let’s go book shopping,” he had said. He pulled her out of the bed and promised her a list of books she had been writing down on a couple of post-it notes. Out by the car, he had said, “I’ll even pay,” and he opened the passenger side door for her.

Where they went first wasn’t the bookshop or even on the itinerary. Outside a long rectangular building, made mostly of glass windows, Chris drags Jal across the street and inside.

“I am tired, Chris,” Jal says, dragging her feet a little as he pulls her along. Her small heels tap against the tiled floor. Her voice echoes. For a minute, she feels Chris’ hand tighten around hers.

They approach the elevator. He presses the up arrow and takes a few steps back, watching the little box above the doors. He waits outside the left elevator. “C’mon, Jal,” he pulls her into it and presses a button hard. “We owe it to that little girl.”

Jal narrows her eyes. She pulls her hand out from his and crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “Don’t you dare –”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Please,” he says quietly. Jal inhales through her nose. 

She watches the floor numbers appear. “This is the last time,” she says through clenched teeth. “I’ve had enough.” 

*

**twelve: 2017**

**(2017) chris is 27, jal is 27**

\- 

Jal slides back under the covers. 

Chris turns to face her. “You’re up early.”

“It’s only nine, Chris.”

He makes an attempt at a shrug. “Day doesn’t start ‘til eleven.”

She raises her eyebrow. Jal lies down, moving closer to him. “I’m pregnant, Chris.”

Chris gives her a sleepy smile. “More reason to sleep in,” he says, pulling the duvet up around her shoulders.

-

When they make it to four months, Chris litters the house with post-it notes. She finds them on the doorframes of the kitchen, the guest bedroom and her bedroom. She finds them all over the study. They range from ‘diapers’ to ‘crib’ to ‘Hi Jal go sit down’ and, in the study, ‘Jal’s room: where music superstars are born’.

It becomes worse when they hit six.

-

“Chris,” she waddles into the kitchen.

He looks up. When he sees her, he jumps out of his chair at the kitchen table. “Are you crazy?” 

“No,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “Not as crazy as you,” she looks at him pointedly. He stops in his tracks. She holds up a post-it note. “Seriously, Chris. I love the post-it notes, but writing dirty lyrics on them –”

He approaches her and takes it off of her. He reads it, “If you seek Amy.” He looks at her. “How is that dirty? It’s just a song I need to download, to add to my collection –”

She narrows her eyes, snatching it off of him. “You are unbelievable,” she says before turning around, walking back into the lounge room.

“What?” he shouts after her. He raises his arms in a shrug. “Seriously. I think you’re readin’ one too many gossip magazines and it’s like sucking away your intelligence.”

“Fuck off!” she yells. 

Chris smiles and snaps his fingers. He nods to himself, muttering, “That’s more like it.”

-

Chris disappears less and less during the months. It feels weird to Jal, having someone with her when he does disappear.

-

Chris keeps yelling “It’s time!” into the phone. When he finishes calling everyone, he makes sure she’s safely in the car and drives off at a speed that is reminiscent of all the Bruce Willis movies they have watched over the past months. 

When they’re at the hospital, it’s all a blur. Everyone comes in at rapid speed, one after the other. “Where’s Olivia?” Jal looks at Michelle and Tony, minus a person.

Michelle stands by her, taking her hand. “With my mother.”

Tony mumbles, “God have mercy.”

When she’s only “five centimetres”, as the doctor had said, Jal made sure Chris got some air. “You’re looking pale,” she says, running her fingers along his cheek. “Go outside.”

“I’m fine.”

“For me,” she says, holding his hand. “I can’t move, let alone stand up in an elevator. Go outside for me.”

Maxxie goes with Chris outside. They stay out there for twenty minutes.

When “it’s time”, as the doctor had said, Jal makes sure she’s squeezing the life out of Chris’ hand. She ensures Michelle comes. “I don’t want him to faint and leave me all alone,” she says through gritted teeth.

Chris immediately protests. “I have muscles of steel.”

Jal squeezes his hand tighter.

When she comes, the world seems to stop spinning. Jal holds her, feeling the weight settle nicely along her arms. 

Chris tentatively touches the little girl’s hand. She wraps her small hand around his finger lightly. Jal smiles, “She’s beautiful.”

“She gets her good looks from her father,” Chris says, laughing softly.

-

**(2008) chris is 27, tony is 18**

Tony leads them outside the pool area. There are a few tables lined up along the sides. Chris has never seen them before.

When they sit, Tony pulls out two sandwich cases. Both are tuna. “Why do you keep travelling?” Tony asks, for once his sandwich is untouched.

Chris looks down, drawing patterns on the table. “Can’t tell you, mate.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t it help you?”

Chris shakes his head. He looks up at Tony. “Nah, mate. I’ve tried changing the past. It never works. It just happens anyway.” He doesn’t make eye contact with Tony.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says.

“Don’t be,” he mumbles. Chris shrugs, trying to shake off the tension that has settled between them. “I just left the best day of my life,” he smiles. “I’m sort of glad that I travelled to this moment.”

“What happened?”

Chris puts a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he laughs. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” 

They sit in silence. Chris takes the other sandwich and has a bite.

*

**(2017) jal is 27**

“I didn’t want to tell you this,” Maxxie says, sitting on the lounge next to her. 

Quickly, Jal says, “What is it, Max?” She angles her body to face him. 

Maxxie doesn’t make eye contact with her. He looks down at the lounge. “I saw Chris with some spliff, before Anna was born. Outside the hospital.” Then, quickly, he says, “Maybe he was just blowing off some steam?”

Jal nods, “Maybe.”

-

Jal catches Chris with spliff twice. She doesn’t tell him. She figures that, maybe, he needs to blow off some steam. That, maybe, Chris doesn’t find walking around the neighbourhood to be nerve-calming. 

She catches him a month after Anna was born. He’s outside, around the back of the garage, smoking it. She doesn’t say anything. She returns back inside and watches Anna sleep in her cot. He disappears later that night.

The second time is five weeks after that disappearance. He’s smoking spliff early in the morning, after picking up the morning paper. He disappears in the late afternoon.

-

Chris is sitting on the lounge, watching a television program with the volume on mute. She stands behind him, leaning against the lounge. She wraps her arms around his neck. “I think you should go see Dr Tatum.”

-

Dr Tatum asks a number of different questions:

 **1.** “How is Anna?”

Chris smiles. “She’s fine. Looks more like her mother every day. Thank god.”

 **2.** “Have you been travelling?”

“On and off,” he says. He fidgets in his chair. “It’s like before Jal’s pregnancy. I just – go. Sometimes.”

Dr Tatum writes something down. “I see.”

 **3.** “Do you do anything to trigger it?”

Chris pauses. “No.”

 **4.** “How do you feel when you travel? Anything ... distinctive?”

Chris shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just feel disoriented when I get there.”

 **5.** “Do you ever try to stop it?”

“All the time.”

“Has it ever worked?”

“No.”

 **6.** “Does she travel?”

Chris blinks. He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. His mouth feels dry.

-

After he sees Dr Tatum, Jal has her own questions:

 **1.** “Anything conclusive?”

 **2.** “Have you found a way to stop it?”

 **3.** “Will she have it?”

Chris never gives her any answers.

*

While Jal is busy trying to prevent Michelle from maxing out all of her cards, Chris takes Anna to the cemetery. 

He walks with her in his arms, leaving the pram in Tony’s car. When he reaches Peter, he lifts up her small arm and waves to the headstone. “That’s Uncle Peter,” he says to her, bobbing her up and down slightly. “I’ve got many stories to tell you about him.”

And so, he begins with the one where little Chris was being picked on by a taller boy and Peter gave his little brother his clothes.

*

**chris is 27, tony is 27**

Tony finds him outside.

“You know, mate,” Tony says, snatching Chris’ spliff from his fingers. “You’re a good friend.” He puts the spliff in his back pocket. Chris looks a little lost without it. “You helped me when I was down, y’know? I figure it’s time I do that for you.”

Chris frowns. “What are you on about, Tone?”

Tony looks at him. “The spliff. It’s so 2005.” 

Chris slides his hands into his pockets. “Tony –”

“I know,” he says. “It doesn’t take a genius, but I figured it out.”

“What out?”

“The travelling. It _is_ like vertigo. You see spliff, you take spliff, you smoke spliff, you travel because of spliff.”

“I don’t know –”

“Chris,” Tony says, voice lower. “Shut up for a sec, yeah? I’m breakin’ in my doctor shoes.” Chris looks away from Tony, hearing the voices from inside filter out through the open kitchen window. “You smoke spliff, you travel. Pretty damn simple, I think. But why you smoke spliff,” he turns to face Chris, “is what we need to figure out.”

“We?”

Tony nods. He places his hands into his pockets and walks behind Chris. He pats Chris on the back. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, y’know.”

-

After some consideration that lasts only five minutes after they get home, Chris finds his spliff stash and puts it in the outside bin. Early, the next morning, he mows the grass and puts the cuttings in the garbage bin, on top of the spliff – just as a safety precaution.

-

He keeps only one spliff. Five days after mowing the grass, he smokes it.

**(20..) chris is 27, peter is, chris is**

Chris spots Peter and little Chris instantly. They’re walking home along the path from school. Peter’s taller than him, walking by his side. Chris remembers he never felt so safe before that moment.

Little Chris’ bag slides off his shoulders. His shoelace has untied itself over the course of the walk. Peter stops them, kneeling down and tying up Chris’ shoelace. He does it slowly. The memory comes back to Chris in tiny pieces, like a puzzle. He slowly puts the pieces together; he remembers Peter showing him the steps to tying his shoelace, telling him he’ll show him again later and later, until he knows how to do it in his sleep. Peter takes Chris’ bag and swings it over his shoulder.

The two start walking again. Little Chris keeps glancing down at his tied shoe.

When they round the corner, Chris disappears.

*

**(2017) chris is 27, jal is 27**

It has been four months, two days, five hours, thirty-seven minutes and twenty seconds since Chris broke up with spliff.

He sits on the front steps, watching Jal walk around with Anna in her arms. She’s telling her a story about the flowers, he supposes, as he catches tiny snippets of their one-way conversation. Jal bobs up and down slightly as she walks slowly around the front garden.

He thinks that if he was still with spliff, still in that rather abusive relationship, as he has come to see it, he would miss moments like these.

-

**zero:**

He does travel one last time.

**(2025) chris is 27, jal is 35**

He ends up at the graveyard.

Jal is by a headstone. With her is a small girl with thick dark hair. She holds onto Jal’s arm with one hand, in the other she holds onto a small bouquet of flowers. Anna places the flowers down in front of the headstone. She touches it, feeling the roughness of the cement. Jal is talking to her, telling her a story. Anna watches the way Jal’s mouth moves, and looks at the headstone again.

They stay for a few minutes. Chris doesn’t move from his place near a large monument. He can’t hear what Jal’s saying, but he figures he knows.

When they leave, walking at a slow pace, hand-in-hand, Chris approaches the headstone. The freshly picked flowers are from their garden. He planted the seeds just yesterday, listening to Jal’s instructions to water them every day. He bought a torch earlier that day to speed up the photosynthesis process he’s Wikipedia’d due to Anwar’s advice.

He touches Peter’s headstone and says, “You watch out for her, mate.” 

When he disappears, the lead that sits in his stomach dissipates. 

-

**(2017) chris is 27, jal is 27**

When he appears in the backyard, he grabs a pair of three-quarter pants from the clothes line. Running inside, he finds Jal lying on the lounge, watching her usual garbage program. 

He drops onto the lounge at her feet, crawling up her body. He kisses her neck.

Jal laughs, fidgeting under him. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” he says against her skin. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Jal finds her hands, placing her palms against his warm cheeks. “Chris,” she says, laughing.

He grins, slipping out of her palms and back to her neck. “Let’s make a boy baby,” he murmurs.

She laughs. “As opposed to a normal baby?”

Chris moves from her neck to look at her, frowning. “No,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We need a boy baby. To balance out the ying and the yang.”

Jal only frowns. “Will _you_ be having this baby?”

Chris cocks his eyebrow. “Have I come back to the right century?”

Jal laughs, pulling him into an awkward hug. His face ends up back at her neck. 

“We’ll name him Peter,” he says, giving her neck a kiss. “And we’ll get a golden retriever, too.”

“You’re so bossy,” she says. Chris hops up off the lounge. He runs his hands over his pants, trying to flatten them. Jal stares at his askew hair. “Where are you going?”

“ _We_ are going to bed,” he says, before bending down and slipping one arm under her knees and one around her back. He lifts her up and kisses the other side of her neck. He carries her off to their room, her laughter echoing throughout the house.

-

It’s dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.  
— Audrey Niffenegger ( _The Time Traveler's Wife_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was hard to write. I had no idea how I wanted to format it. Did I want to copy Niffenegger's _The Time Traveller's Wife_ and have the timeline jump all over the place? How would I not confuse anyone who read this? How would I not confuse myself? The one thing I knew from the beginning is that Chris, if I could help it, would not die.
> 
> I wanted to deal with a lot of things. I wanted to deal with the hit and miss nature of the original relationship in the book and movie adaption. I also wanted to deal with Chris and his mother, Chris and Peter, Jal and her mother, and Tony's accident. I didn't get to deal with Chris and his mother, and Jal and hers, as much as I had wanted to. Instead, I think I left Chris and his mother's relationship more up to interpretation. I was going to have her appear in "the end" section, but it didn't fit right. The one thing I didn't want to do, as I was figuring out what I wanted to deal with in "the end", was to tie up all the bows nicely. I wanted to leave some of them untied. I also didn't want to show _everything_ , like Chris meeting Dr Tatum for the first time, or even giving Dr Tatum much ~screentime~. I wanted this fic to be more of a representation of the major points in Chris and Jal's lives, and leave the rest of it to interpretation. I didn't want to show _everything_. Simply because it was too hard at times for me to develop.
> 
> Cassie didn't really play a big part in this. I couldn't really find a place for her in the story, as well as my own personal feelings for her caused me to not find her a role to play in Chris and Jal's story. Although, I caved, and gave Chris that phone call. So I guess you can say that Cassie's storyline in this fic follows that of the season two finale where she flies off to New York on a whim. With that, I really did want to focus on the gang, but I felt that if I did so, it may detract from Chris and Jal's story. And, besides, it was long enough as it is. :p
> 
> This was a lot of fun to write, and a really big challenge. And I hope that you enjoyed the story. I wanted to leave some things open-ended for Chris and Jal as I hate it when things are neatly tied up, and I personally felt that their story couldn't be tied up in a neat little bow.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading. :) ♥


End file.
